


Come to Poppa

by Dunaven



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A flock of dead doves, Child Abuse, Dark, Dark Thoughts, Disturbing Themes, Extreme Underage, Father-Son Relationship, Father/Son Incest, Favoritism, Fucked Up, Graphic descriptions of sexual abuse and neglect, Incest, M/M, Mary mentioned, Masochistic Dean, Parent/Child Incest, Pedophilia, Religious References, Sadistic John, Self-Control issues, Sexual Abuse, Short Temper, Suicidal Thoughts, Summer Heat, Tenderness, Violence, Wincest - Freeform, inspired by another work, or at least high pain tolerance, predation, seedy motel, wierd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2020-01-15 02:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 74
Words: 111,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18488980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dunaven/pseuds/Dunaven
Summary: Especially now that Mary's gone, John strives to be a good father. However, nature has given him the tools and tastes of an insatiable predator.





	1. Blazin' at the Bit

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to another writer's work. Unfortunately, that writer has been pressured into taking down her piece. I would strongly recommend you heed the warnings here and only enter if you are prepared to consume some dove meat.
> 
> The title is taken from a Bob Seger song.

[ ](https://imgur.com/UmJnuBn)

 

 

Florida is one of Hell's most popular outposts. 

The summer of 1984 is pure damnation. The state's name might conjure images of the theme park or the beach, but Disney and Daytona are Satan's jewels, where prices burn even whiter than the sun. 

John Winchester has no time, no money for games. He’s chasing Big Bad down deep into the Glades. If it ends him, John will find that yellow-eyed demon. Right after he gets through playing with his balls. 

His sweaty back cleaves to the cracked vinyl chair. A half-empty bottle of whiskey hangs from one hand, testicles rolling like stress-relief gizmos between the fingers of the other. He’s already jacked off twice tonight, choking time since there ain’t nothing else to kill.

MOTEL: the sign outside makes no unkept promises. Where customers pay by the hour, every minute counts and nobody asks questions. These days, his driver's seat is as close to home as John comes.

The TV’s muted and the window’s open to 18-wheelers rumbling and bullfrogs belching. Water-logged branches groan and threaten to dive from their ancient trees. There are places in Florida, you might hear children laughing, even at this godless hour. Out here, though, a sound like that would get sucked into the swamp and drown. John’s boys don’t test it.

A few feet away, Sam and Dean snore like fresh-hatched dragons, marinating in dark puddles of sweat. In more temperate climes, they’d huddle together, but not since this air conditioner spewed out its last cool breath. John seized that chance and made the motel manager cut the price on the room. That leaves more coins in the pot. It also forces his sons to wiggle apart for their soggy twenty winks. 

This goddamned boner. 

Even Johnny Carson’s antics aren’t helping with the edge tonight. Johnny W. smooths a palm over his thickening cock and bites his lower lip.

The air is so humid,  his chair feels like a gyro-skewer  slicing away slivers of his backmeat. All the man can do is shift his weight and moan, already acquainted with the kind of liquid heat that crackles inside and bubbles the paper on the walls.

Folks come down here and expect it’ll be cooler once the sun sets. Maybe the temperature decreases, but it's no less oppressive. In fact, in the black of night the burning creeps out of shadows and seeps into your marrow - while the mosquitos have at your topsoil.

Pussy might help.

Plenty of hookers and barflies would spread their knees with the boys asleep in the next bed. There’s even a joint up the road. John Winchester's equipped with the rugged good looks to smile himself into a quick BJ in the head.

Trouble is, it’s too steamy for clothes, funds are low, and it’s well after midnight. And let’s face it, five minutes with some sloshed slut would be like scarfing down a Happy Meal when the man craves veal.

John peels aside the fabric, gets at the meat. This flimsy cotton has seen too many days. He ought to salt and burn these boxers instead of just pulling them out of his crack. But these drawers will disintegrate to dust before John takes them out of rotation. 

(That’s a Mary joke. Nights like this, John misses her jokes and her moist cunt).

He stares at the screen and pretends he doesn't know about the even tighter hidey-holes within his reach. Delicate hands, a tiny, plush mouth, a pink gem puckering and unplundered between two creamy mounds: the thought branches across John's imagination like slimy, black mold.

Over in their nest, Dean moans and shoves Sam’s tentacle off his chest. They’ve squirmed too close again: a pretty pile of slender, pale limbs, heaving bellies and protruding ribs.

Helping Ethiopians is good, but Sally Struthers ought to be raising money for pasty American kids. John pumps them full of diner grub and fast food, but they say skinny as a pair of albino stickbugs.

It’s as though Mother’s Love is the missing ingredient for plump, healthy-looking children. The best a lone father can do is raise boys to be scrappy.

Sam is two and terrible, the second child who wasn’t going to fix anything. It might have been all right if Mary was around to deal with his tantrums. As it is, Dean plays the six-year-old mother, spooning up fallen crumbs of breakfast, cooing through sleepless fevers, while John regrets.

And remembers: holding the shears in trembling hands, cutting his firstborn loose from his mother’s cord. John was the first to hold that tiny, bloody miracle and kiss his misshapen head.

Dean continues to inch away from his little brother, the mini-furnace, until one bony knee juts over the edge of the mattress. This boy is the best thing to come from him. A father? Who let that happen?

Ol' Mary’s not putting out much these days. She’s back in Lawrence, Kansas, pushing up brambles, twitching around in her hole while John rolls around, smacking his gums like his older boy is a braised lamb glistening on the spit.

Dean’s arm falls over the side of the bed, almost like he’s beckoning. His hand is ripening, low-hanging plum ready to drop into John’s heaven-turned palm.

For the record, John's not a creep. He’s knows what’s right and that wanting his son ain’t it. That's why he doesn't take.

Our Fathers and Jesus' Name have pulled him through scrapes in the jungle, and many temptations before and since. The Lord was once his shepherd, although it’s not so clear these days where John should go. That’s why he chases his demon.

But since the piss-eyed bastard isn’t in this room, John walks over, lays Dean straight and builds a pillow barrier between the boys. He hovers close enough to count Dean’s breaths. John wallows in the scent of his son’s sleep-sweat, ignoring the damp spot spreading at his crotch.

In the TV's flickering half-light, he angles for a glimpse of that candy-pink tongue. Kneels at his son’s side like a crusader at an altar. He pets, then kisses gently curved, petal-soft fingers, cool despite the swelter.

John could put them in his mouth. The tip of his tongue peeks out. Could a single lick quench? John whispers, “My boy.” Wipes the sweat from Dean's brow, retreats to his bed, and spreads the salted sweetness across his parched lips.


	2. Chapter 2

Sultry full moon tonight. Not long after the sun sinks, a sin-black impala eases into park two houses down from a tired shack that leans on its foundation like an old man. 

John rolls down the window letting in the cricket clicks and that inescapable fetid swamp stink. Binoculars aren’t much help against closed curtains. He'll have to get closer.

Dean’s eager eyes shine black in the muggy darkness. Sam lays in the back seat, under a blanket, already snoring.

Can’t very well take a pair of pre-schoolers on a hunt and there’s nowhere else to leave them. At least, this way they’re close. Dean’s been training and he’s sharp. John hangs a whistle around his big boy’s neck, ruffles his hair and draws the knife from the sheath at his waist.

“You know what to do.”

The little soldier nods as the commander places the hilt in his tiny hands. John would die to taste his lips, but only pats the boy’s cheek. The doors snap locked behind him and he skulks forward to battle.

 

***

 

Another town, another bottle. Same vicious heat. The only change is a bandage over the pus-filled and putrid wound on his left cheek. Banshee scratches heal, in time.

John laid down their last fifty bucks for this room. Might as well enjoy it. After tonight, the Winchester men will be roughing it in the car until Papa Bear can rustle up more green.

He spreads out in his own bed, draining a stolen 40. An infomercial plays on mute; some jackass hustling cleaning products at 2 in the morning.

Three feet away, Dean’s sleeping with his mouth wide open. John reaches into his shorts and - thwap - smacks his tenacious wood against his belly: hard again after blowing a load an hour ago.

It’s a squirmy night in the baby bed. Dean's whimpering doesn't help with the erections.

So much of their life is a nightmare. You’d think the boy would get some peace at night. Then again, in his rare snatches of sleep, John doesn’t dream at all.

“Dean?”

He’s been drinking since sunset, but his throat is parched, voice barely audible. Too much yelling today. Mostly, he screamed at Dean for failures that weren’t the child’s fault: a dead girl, an escaped werewolf, Sam’s incessant whining.

John shouted himself hoarse while Dean hung his head and said, “Yes, sir.”

He doesn’t deserve such a good boy. Never did. The least he can do is offer some fatherly comfort. John palms his rager, taming it below the elastic: a serpent on his thigh. Then he calls again, a little louder.

One green eye cracks open.

Even Dean's wincing sleepy face is adorable. John smiles, holds a finger to his lips and gestures for his son to come. Dean rolls over and checks on Sam.

_Yes. Sam is right there. Where else would Sam be?_

_Don’t wake him. God, please._

It’s always Hell getting that kid to sleep in a new room, new bed. When Dean sits up, the little one snorts but doesn’t rouse. Satisfied, Dean rubs his eyes. John doesn’t risk another sound or breath while he waits.

The little soldier leaps down and stands at attention beside his father’s bed.

“Climb up,” John whispers.

Dean scrunches his face, confused. He doesn’t need to understand. Just needs to be closer. John's bottle thunks against the bedside table. He reaches under Dean's pits and drags the boy into his lap, facing the stupidity on TV.

"No more stinky dreams, baby. Daddy’s gotcha."

John shuts his eyes and centers Dean on his aching problem. Two flimsy layers of cotton separate their flesh: his own underwear and Dean’s. Thin as skin.

The boy shifts his weight and John clasps an arm around his tiny body, gasping as waves of pleasure flood his system.

“Oh, God.”

If there were a God, He wouldn’t abandon a man to this cell and his darkest sin.

Finally, after a bit more agonizing wiggling, Dean yawns and stills. He lays his head back on his father’s shoulder.

As his breathing steadies, the hand not clutching him traces a bony left thigh. John nuzzles the sticky neck. Sweaty again already. Baths are wasted effort for cleanliness, but they do offer a daily moment of bliss for the man with the soap and washcloth.

He strokes the damp hair from Dean’s forehead and a song wells up in his chest. Where there should be lullabies, John's got rock n' roll:

_If the sun_

_Ain't shinin’ bright_

_And the moon_

_Won't shine for you tonight_

_If the stars in the sky gone away_

_And you feel_

_Real low down today_

_If life gets hard to understand_

_And the whole thing is getting out of hand_

_Come to Poppa_

_Come see your poppa_

_If you need a pacifier_

_Call me anytime_

_I'll try to be your satisfier_

_If you feel_

_Like a horse_

_Blazin' at the bit_

_Call my number_

_Anytime night or day_

_I'll get ya fixed_

_If life gets hard to understand_

_And your whole life is way out of hand_

_Come to Poppa_

_Come see your poppa_

John holds his son in place, tilts up his hips to press between the clothed cleft. That’s it. No more. Never more than this tiny liberty.

Not to take it would drive him insane.

Dean moans and sinks into his father’s arms. As an extra treat for his own good behavior, John sniffs, nibbles, licks the salt from the baby-soft neck. He sighs at the bird-quick pulse beneath his smile.

Dean’s long lashes flutter until they open like butterfly wings, still wet from his dream. Whatever it was is already forgotten. The fire, maybe. He dreams the fire a lot.

He sniffs and frowns at his daddy's sharp stink. Dean face and fingers are burrowed in soft, black fur, but this is not where he fell asleep.

That little hog Sam is spread out like the whole other bed belongs to him. When Dean grumbles and moves to reclaim his rightful space, Daddy’s arm tightens around his middle.

“Stay,” Daddy whispers and moves Dean’s arm lower.

But something’s alive down there on Daddy’s leg. Dean’s hand brushes it and it twitches. He yanks away before it gets him.

His daddy is burning hot and growling in his sleep like a big, mean walrus. It’s even worse than sharing with Sam, but orders are orders. Good boys obey without delay.

 

***

 

"I said to fucking eat."

Dean's Daddy's voice is savage like the sun, heavy and hot on Dean's head, even though he's yelling at Sam. Even an elbow in his little brother's ribs doesn't make Sam sit still on the park bench.

Dean had swallowed a groan at the row of cans and his daddy's rugged opener. Same lunch as breakfast: baked beans mixed with stewed tomatoes. Not heated. Just eat it.

As Daddy wrenched open the lids, Dean rested his cheek on his palm and went to war with his tears. 

Sam cried about his can and spoon. That's when Daddy yelled. He doesn't just yell for nothing. Mostly he's just quiet, but sometimes Sam turns him into a scary thing.

Sam throws his can into the grass. He’s little and it doesn’t fly very far, but the food spills out. Daddy starts hollering words Dean’s not allowed to say.

Now, Sam stops squealing and shrinks back. Quick as a flea, Dean knocks his brother off the bench. That way those rough hands close hard around Dean’s shoulders. For a moment, Daddy is a monster with wild, dark eyes and nose-holes that puff out steam to melt the peeling off little boys’ bones.

He stops when he sees he's caught the wrong son.

"Fucking kid."

Just as fast, Daddy's claws go in. Dean turns around and gives Sam his can. With his eyes, he begs his little brother to shut up and eat. It’s not nice food, but sometimes, there’s whole plates of liver and mashed potatoes swimming in gravy. Sam should think about that. Maybe there’ll be nice food tomorrow. Or the next day.

But Sammy's mouth is wide for crying, not eating. Daddy spoons a helping in and Sam chokes and spits it out. Finally, Daddy snatches away Sam's can and gobbles up all of his food. For some reason, Sam shrieks even louder. He can't help that he's little and stupid.

Daddy's teeth are grinding behind his beard. After yelling it just gets worse. So, Dean hops down from the bench and scrapes Sam’s mess back into the can. He scrunches up his face and picks out a blade of grass.

Might be a bug in there, but God made dirt…

When the first bite flies toward his open mouth, Daddy knocks the spoon from his hand.

“Go throw that out."

The yucky can clanks into the big steel trashcan. Dean sighs and lets his shoulders drop. Hungry is maybe better than eating insects.

When he comes back to the bench, Daddy offers his own food. Dean smiles and reaches for the spoon, but Daddy won't let him hold it. He's probably worried it will drop on the ground. Instead, Dean has to open his mouth, wide, and say, “Ah.”


	3. Chapter 3

The night looms moonless, starless and without forgiveness. No homes or cars out here. Only the occasional palm tree bending over the road. Alone on the highway, John’s death-black machine barrels 80 MPH toward Big Cypress - Florida’s deepest swamp. This car will be his coffin; the boy beside him his demise.

On his way to Hell, John will send this angel back to Heaven, untouched and unharmed. The man is no saint, but everything he feels for Dean is Love. Tender, warm affection and a desire that rips his insides raw like swallowed glass. Love is a damn good reason to die. 

In the backseat, Sam snores: collateral damage.

The sight of Dean drooling on the passenger window is honey and lime. John tugs the scrawny wrist. Whispers, “Come to Poppa.”

“Yes, sir?” Dean mumbles, still squeezing his eyes shut.

John pats his thigh. The little one covers his yawn and lays his head in his daddy’s lap, facing the wheel. John gently rolls him onto his back and for a moment, loses focus. How can he watch the cold, black pavement when there’s a pink-lipped doll slumbering beneath his hand?

And while there want coursing through him, hot and toxic as vamp venom. John cups the back of his son’s skull. Presses the side of Dean’s sleeping face to his crotch. Strokes the soft cheek and touches his sleeping eyes.

One kiss wouldn’t harm him. He’d never know. Still, John settles for brushing his thumb over the plush little mouth. Dean’s lips part at the touch, setting off a bonfire in his father’s chest and sending the car skidding left across the yellow line.

John rights it and slips the tip of one finger into the warmth and wet.

_If you need a pacifier_

He delves two fingers, pressing Dean's tongue until the boy sputters and scrunches his face. Then, in his sleep, he sucks.

The poison in John’s veins spirals into a naked need. His tears blur the road.

The last thing he wants is to hit a palm tree and risk a mere injury. Even slamming against a wall isn’t a guarantee. Sinking in a swamp is final.

To pull himself together and avoid an accident, John pulls over. He cuts the engine and the lights. As soon as the car stops, the air through the vents heats up. John cracks his window and thick, fetid air seeps in along with greedy mosquitos.

He drops his head on the steering wheel and fumbles for a prayer.

_Dear God…_

“What’s wrong, Daddy?” Dean sits up.

John' centers attention on his own breath, not the frail, anxious voice beside him. Not the small, cool hand on his arm.

Why is it so wrong?

Dean’s age? Or John’s? Because they’re family? None of that matters when John is burning.

He’s let their cash sock go flat. And though he could thieve, gamble or work his way into more money, what kind of existence is this?

They’ve been on the road for two years. That goddamn yellow-eyed son of a bitch is mist in the wind.

This is the time to die. Before his sons start to complain of hunger again. Before John’s hunger unravels him, or he gives into his darkness and becomes the devil itself.

Before he’s ready to finish this journey, a pair of high beams shine in the rearview. Rather than pass, the car halts behind them. He ought to start the car and punch the gas, but why risk a witness?

"Reach in the glove box and hand Daddy his pistol, son.”

Dean always complies without question. Now John clutches his gun in a trembling hand, ready to blow off this meddlesome stranger's face.

A paunchy, older gentleman shines a flashlight into the back window and John stuffs the weapon under his jacket. The beam shines on Dean and he flinches from the light.

“Hey. Kansas is a long way from home. Y’all need a hand?”

“No, sir,” John replies, winding down his window. “Just… My son had to take a piss. Go on, Dean.”

Dean blinks. This is the first he’s heard about needing to piss, but he opens the door and hops out. No doubt, he pulls out his little pecker and strains to squeeze out a few drops.

The Good Samaritan introduces himself and asks their destination. There isn’t a tooth in his head.

“Uh, north,” John says. “Kentucky.”

“Well, you’re heading the wrong way. Good thing I showed up. You’re facing due east right now.”

“Oh.”

“Tough business, traveling with kids,” Paul Miller says. “If you don’t mind my asking, where’s the missus?”

John does mind. He grumbles some truths, some lies.

“Fine looking boys you got.”

John fakes a smile. Dean climbs back into the car and shuts the door.

“Good Lord only saw fit to give me girls.” The old man leans on the driver’s window and hacks a rheumy, mint-scented cough. “Four of ‘em. You believe it?”

John believes it. What he doesn’t believe is the impossible timing of this encounter.

“I’ll tell you what,” Paul Miller says. “Sons are a blessing. You a religious man, Mister?”

“Um, no, sir.”

“Well, the good book says to train them up in the way they should go and they will not stray from it. And it warns us not to spare the rod.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

“And for you, little man, Ephesians 6 says, ‘obey your parents in the lord, that it may go well with you all the days of your life.” The old-timer adds, “That means you behave.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean squeaks.

Dean always behaves. Always listens. Always aims to please and succeeds.

When he’s through with his sermon, Mr. Miller bids them good night and limps back to his pickup truck. He honks as he drives past. That must be what wakes Sam who sits up and whines, “Where are we?”

The screechy voice grates John’s fragile nerves. He comforts himself by curling a hand around Dean’s neck, pulling him close enough to breathe in his scent and cry in his hair.


	4. Chapter 4

"That hurt?”

"No, ma’am."

The pretty red-head nurse sprays on an acidic smelling antiseptic, traps a cotton ball under the bandage and smiles. Her hand lingers on his arm far longer than necessary. John returns the goodwill, even though the adhesive will stick in his arm hair later. At least it'll be funny faking agony while Dean peels it off in the shower. 

John rolls down his sleeve and thanks the girl. Her eyelashes bat like she's auditioning for a cartoon. This effortless ladykilling is another of nature's cruel jokes. John Winchester smiles, panties drop. It’s nice, but nothing he’s ever wanted. It does, however, aid his sleight of hand. It can be useful to have a woman on his arm, like once he turned thirty, and nosy folks started asking why such a handsome young man wasn’t hitched yet and didn’t even appear to be dating.

“We need you to sit tight another twenty minutes, just to be safe,” Clara says).

John wouldn't have asked, but the name is right there on her pin. She gives him a choice between a red and green juice box. Fake grape. John sips noisily and she laughs.

“Think I can get another one of those for my son?”

She smirks at the request, sneaks a glance at her supervisor and hands over the contraband.

“How old is he?”

John’s smile becomes genuine when he answers, “Six.”

He could talk forever about his brave, clever, fast, strong boy. Clara tilts her head at the fatherly admiration. When the twenty minutes are spent, she slips him her number on a strip of gauze.

Pussy does ease the itch. John learned that early on. Back before he’d met Mary, before Dean was a shadow on his mind, the young Marine would work up enough bravery to wander past a playground, lean on the chain-linked fence and sigh. Every time, he’d capture the attention of another teenage au pair and wind up fucking a French girl in some stranger’s house. John has a lot of respect for pussy. It's like having an apple when your tongue craves chips. Better than nothing. For years, pussy has kept him out of prison and out of the papers.

He thanks Miss Clara again, accepts his fifty American dollars and whistles on his way through the automatic doors. Cash earned in under an hour with no skulls cracked. It’s a good day.

Then he reaches his empty car.

John drops the juice and spins in place, scanning the parking lot for signs. He left the windows open and the instructions clear: Dean was not to leave the car unless it caught fire. Sam is his shadow, so this is all on Dean.

Actually, it’s on the idiot who left them alone in the car. He runs up and down the rows of cars, shouting his son’s name. For the second time in as many days, John tries to scrape together a prayer.

“God, no.”

If anything happens… If anyone so much as…He can’t even finish the thought.

Like the first ray of sun after a squall, he spots his boy under a tree, slurping up the side of an orange popsicle. Normally, that sight would send a warm rush to John’s crotch. He’s too frantic to appreciate the lurid potential. The heat in his chest and face are only due to his own stupidity.

John watches the news. You can’t turn your head for a second or someone will swipe your kids and take them somewhere and… well, John knows what he’d do.

In the mulch, right beside Dean, Sam has spilled purple all down his t-shirt and his fat fingers. Dean stands and waves, oblivious to his father’s wrath until John thunders over and lifts him by the arm.

His treat splatters on the ground and the boy yelps as John launches the first strike. Dean tries to protect his bottom. He pleads and wails, but he doesn’t cry.

John doesn’t spank him often, but this disobedience, Sam’s mess and the presumptuous people who always shower his boys with this kind of attention - it drives him flaming mad.

The windows were cracked. The boys had a water bottle. They weren’t going to suffocate in an hour. Besides, it ain’t nobody else’s damn business what a man does with his own son. Let ‘em watch John now. Anybody who doesn’t like whoopings can line up to kiss his hairy ass.

John’s open hand falls heavy on Dean’s behind and the backs of his thighs, aiming to draw tears from the same boy he constantly tells to ‘man up’.

Dean doesn’t cry, because the crying is Sam’s job. Dean takes the beating and Sam lets out a loud, piercing wail. John swings back and the crack of his hand against Sam’s cheek doesn’t stir up one ounce of regret. Neither does Sam howling louder. It's the cold ferocity in Dean's eyes that makes John drop his hand. Spanking's over.

Now, John Winchester isn't afraid of the Big Bad Werewolf, he sure as shit ain't scared of a six-year-old. In fact, the day he grows to fear either of his sons, he’ll put a bullet through his own brain. The withering sensation in his chest isn’t dread, but dismay.

Dean’s respect, the love in his eyes is worth all the world’s diamonds and gold. There’s only one sure way to lose it.

 

***

 

John spends half his blood money buying the dinner they like best. For Dean, liver & onions with mashed potatoes. Chicken fingers with extra broccoli for Sam. Diner food smells like forgiveness, but their little noses turn up and away.

At six and two, his boys have wordlessly conspired to starve. When gentle coaxing fails, John slides across the table into the booth beside Dean, pulls the boy onto his lap and straps an arm around his belly.

He whispers against the warm cheek, “Dean, I’m sorry. Please, eat.”

“Scratchy.” Dean leans forward, away from John’s beard.

“Dean.”

The only thing outside the window is asphalt, but that’s where the boy is looking.

Meanwhile, the old lady behind the counter watches them, just like folks always stare at the beautiful boy and his doting daddy. John could hide Dean away; the light would still find him. Sam wiggles in his booster seat, sucks on his purple thumb. If it weren’t for Dean, John would give him away.

“Dean, please. Daddy’s so sorry.”

The pleading stops when, without invitation, a man scuttles into the opposite booth. He sets his wide-brimmed black hat beside John’s plate and smacks his gums.

“Sure is a strange combination, pair of babies and that machine you got out there.”

John clutches Dean close, evaluating the sharp-featured face, covered in skin brown and dry as beef jerky. With his watery eyes and bulb nose, the man looks a bit like a turtle with a moustache and thick white curls sprouting from its scalp. His wrinkled hands lay folded on the table. The middle three left fingers are missing.

“If you don’t mind me saying so,” the man says. “She could use a washing, your girl out there.”

This sun-dried old man is no threat. Still, John engages his peripheral vision to checks exits, as well as the other tables. The place is empty. No visible accomplices, unless old man winter in cahoots with the octogenarian waitress.

“I don’t mean you no harm,” the old man says. “The good Lord sent me to talk to you, is all.”

Great. The good Lord again. John examines the outstretched claw but doesn’t touch it.

“Reverend Jeremiah Duckett. Your boys sure look like they could use a good night’s rest.”

Nobody ought to be looking that closely at John’s boy. Duckett’s about to lose the rest of his fingers.

"If I had to divine," the old man continues. "I’d say you had you a wife, pretty little thing, from the looks of these handsome boys. She up and died, left you these two. Now you’re out here looking for a redemption you ain’t gonna find nowhere but inside of you."

“Sir, we’re having our dinner.”

“Absolutely, young man. And I’ll leave you to it. But God gives us each our gifts. As you can see my hands ain’t much good no more. Ever since my boy left home, I been relying on strangers' kindness. I can offer board and grub in exchange for honest labor, for as long as you’d like. ”

“I am sorry about your hands, Mr. Duckett. And your son, but —”

“Reverend.”

“But me and my boys are fine,” John says. “Thank you.”

In those two words, John bundled up a whole mess of hostility. Jeremiah Duckett seems to hear it because he climbs to his feet. The old-timer takes his hat and hobbles away across the diner, back to the counter. In the meantime, Sam has started feeding himself with his hands. Even Dean is sucking gravy from his pointer finger.

John chuckles and tugs him close.

This old man is magic, and John could use some of that. His patience is fraying at the edges. There's a canyon cracking down the center of his sanity. Any day, he’ll slip and do God knows what.

It looks like the god damn good Lord is sending a message to trust somebody, for a change.

“Angels,” Mary would say, any time anybody showed a trace of human decency. An angel saved their lives last night, no doubt about that.

They got angels in abundance here in Florida, and all of them old men. Maybe that’s what drew John south. Every day, he passes the billboards promising salvation. He's perched in the back of camp meetings watching folks drop canes and dance. If cripples can be healed why not John?

Up north, they’d take John’s boys away and lock him in a padded cell. Out west, he’d be left alone to wreck what’s left of his family. Here, one of these holy rollers might tap John on the forehead and knock the wickedness out of him. There’s so much evil, it might even leave a shimmering black puddle of slime. John would far rather see his darkness seeping into the ground than clinging to Dean like a defenseless waterbird.

John steels himself and takes a breath. Then, he walks over to the old man with his head bowed and an invisible, arrow-tipped tail tucked between his legs.

Half hour later, John follows like a disciple, steering the Impala left down a dirt road behind a rusted out pick-up with a muffler burping exhaust like a diesel asthmatic. Fixing that truck will be John’s first offering.

He pats Dean’s leg and promises, “Everything’s going to be fine now.”


	5. Chapter 5

Hard to believe that was just a category 3. All around the cabin, it looks like Hades vomited up its sewage. Thankfully, the windows held and there’s no flooding, just swamp debris and other people’s garbage all over Rev. Duckett's property.

It’s just a good thing John is here. There’s no telling how Duckett kept this place orderly during storm season. John rakes through the sandy dirt and snags on something wedged deeper than the surface mess. Sam and Dean look up from their worm-collecting as he tugs to unearth a once-grey jacket.

“Something else of Christopher’s,” John says knocking away as much muck as he can. “Run it up to the Reverend, Dean.”

“Yes, sir.”

Since they’ve arrived, Dean’s behavior has gotten even better. That’s no wonder when good boys earn a treat at the end of each day. There’s always even a cold beer waiting for John, although never more than one. He doesn’t complain or make requests. The discipline has been magical for them all. Even Sam cries less.

As the sun sets, Reverend Duckett rings the dinner bell. John returns the groundbreaking tools to the shed. Dean presents nightcrawlers for inspection. Sam holds up his bowl of grubs.

“A good haul,” the Reverend says and laughs at Sam squealing and squishing the mushy parasites between his bare toes.

The way the Reverend puts it, Sam is a tactile boy. Bright. Needs to stay stimulated.

“My Chris was the same way,” he sighs whenever he compares Sam and his estranged son. 

Dean has become a professional table setter. He performs the task with pride and meticulous attention while John leans on the doorframe with his brew. After a short, cold shower, he settles his weary bones before the meal, marveling at the well-mannered silence from his reformed little monkeys.

Once his plate is bare, Dean asks his daily question: “When are we going fishing with all those worms?”

“One of these days,” John answers, every time.

Dean bounces in his seat and asks when they’ll go anywhere. Cabin fever is real. Other than the weekly grocery run, they don’t leave the property. It’s so much safer that way. John doesn’t get his old ideas when they’re at the cabin under the Reverend’s watchful eye.

He offers a grim smile and the same answer, “One of these days, Dean.”

After dinner, there’s a Werther’s hard candy for everyone who wants one. Sam always turns up his nose until the Reverend gives him a peppermint. John washes the dishes while the Reverend warms up his harmonica. The old man plays and sings every song from Old Dan Tucker to This Little Light of Mine. Once he’s done, John sits on the sofa and tries to clap along with the rhythm of the Reverend’s stomping while the little crickets flap their elbows and call it dancing.

By now, the boys can sing all the words. Dean always asks for Moon River. When the music dies down, they put in for their favorite Bible story. If it were up to Dean, it’d be David and Goliath every night. Sam favors anything about “Somomom.” Amazingly, the Reverend translates his gibberish and immediately knew that meant Solomon.

John prefers parables, especially the Prodigal Son, but tonight, their host declares, “Dealer’s choice.”

As they all settle into their seats to listen, John wonders how it would have been to have this attentive man for a father rather than Hank Winchester, who spent more time with his manuals than he ever gave his children. At least John’s sons have found a surrogate grandfather who can tell them about fighting in the Great War and the Legend of a Time Before TV. Reverend Duckett spins surprisingly fascinating yarns about the evils of living under Jim Crow law and the time President Lyndon Baines Johnson came to Buckhead Ridge.

Tonight, he sits back in his rocker and asks, “Y’all remember about Abram?”

The boys fall silent, faces scrunched in obvious deliberation.

“Well, he’s the one got all his started. Mmhm. A man of great faith. A man with as many sons as there are stars in the sky.”

Sam sticks his first two fingers in mouth. Dean glances at John.

“But he didn’t have any sons at first,” the Reverend continues. “Seemed like his wife must be barren. That means her baby-making parts were dry as a desert. Couldn’t nothing grow in there. Then, when she was 100 years old, God gave her a son, named him Isaac.”

Dean pops onto his feet. “Oh, I remember!”

“You want to tell it, then?”

Dean faces Sam. “He took his son up on the mountain.”

“Now why would he want to do that?” The Reverend asks.

“Because God told him so.”

“Take him on the mountain, and do what?”

Dean peeks at John. He pins his lips shut, won't let the answer off his tongue. Sits down, this time close enough to sling an arm around Sam’s shoulder.

“You remember, John?" The Reverend asks. "Why God sent Abraham onto the mountain with his only begotten son, Isaac?”

John clears his throat and says, “To kill him.”

His sons' eyes go wide.

“And why do you think God would request such a thing?”

There’s silence for a moment while the Winchester men deliberate. Finally, John answers, “To test his faith.”

Reverend Duckett smiles and nods. “To test his faith. Mmhm. Now, off to bed you two.”

“Wait a minute,” Dean protests. “What about the lamb?”

“What lamb? Wasn’t no lamb.”

“Yes, there was,” Dean says. “God sent a lamb so Abraham didn’t have to… you know, do that.”

“Ah. That is true,” the Rev. nods. “God sent a _ram_ , so Abraham could choose which sacrifice to make.”

That’s the end of the story. Dean can fuss all he wants. They aren’t getting any more.

John yawns and ushers the boys through baths, tooth brushing and pajamas. 

This new life is his salvation. In the dark, before sleep, his mind still wanders those dark places, but his hands stay so busy, his body so weary, he only has the energy to collapse into his too-firm bed. On Sundays, when John is not allowed to work, he’s praying, singing, bible studying with the Rev all damn day. It’s as close to a cure as he could have hoped for.

No promise of hellfire, no Holy Ghost. Just hard work, and that’s enough to keep his demons from roosting. It’s actually a miracle how much the agony is alleviated by always being exhausted. On the road, John thought he might die from the torture of wanting someone who is always there but completely off-limits.

Now, he can stand over Dean’s cot, wipe his damp hair from his face and just be grateful.  
  


Before John can settle onto his own mattress, the Reverend raps on the door.

“A word?”

Tired as he is, John doesn’t deny his savior.

He joins the old man in the sitting room and is rewarded with a real live tumbler of bourbon. Just three fingers, but John inhales the spicy-sweet aroma, savors the first sip with his eyes closed. It’s been two months since he’s had a hard drink. Hasn't been this dry since middle school. The burn is sweeter than remembered.

John thanks the old man and stutters in his confusion, “I thought…”

“Everything in moderation, son.”

“A celebration, then?”

“If you like.” The Reverend nods. “What’s the occasion?”

“A sobriety, of sorts.”

Let the old man have his misinterpretation. Make no mistake. John is in recovery.

“You know, I felt the affliction on you the day we met in that diner.”

The Affliction is a fair way to put it.

“How is it now?”

“Better, sir. Worlds better,” John says. “I feel free.”

“You are free, son. As free as your Creator made you to be.”

They sit in sacred silence for a long while. John drinks to freedom, thanks the old man again and begins to stand.

“One more thing, John.”

John stays rooted to his seat.

“You know, I always believed Christopher would follow in my footsteps. As you know, he saw that differently.”

John nods. He’s heard a great deal of how the Reverend’s son abandoned the Call.

“You know, sir. I’ve said before, next time I’m in town, I can look for him online. On the computer. You can find anybody these days.”

The old man purses his wrinkled lips and shakes his head. “Boy made his choice.”

He takes a deep breath while John honors his silence and his decision. If Dean were to run away, John would move heaven, hell and earth to find him.

“But a man does long to pass down his legacy,” Duckett continues. “The things he’s learned. The tools and techniques. To go into his grave knowing that another generation will carry forth his traditions.”

John nods, though all he can hope to pass on to his sons is advanced combat training. It’s better than the squat he got from his father.

“You have these two lovely boys. And I can only hope that I have you.”

“Um, Reverend.”

“Jeremiah,” the old man corrects. “Father, if you like.”

That’s too great an honor, and John is speechless.

“See, John, I believed, from the moment I saw you that we are kindred spirits. There is so much I could teach a man like you.”

John sits upright, truly listening now, though his mind scrambles for clarity. The ministry had never crossed his mind before this moment.

“The Lord God gave man dominion over this earth. He gave us the keys to his kingdom. All we have to do is say, Yes, John. Do you believe that?”

“Yes, sir,” John says, not entirely sure what he’s confirming.

The Reverend rocks in his chair a while. Just when John thinks the old man must have nodded off, he looks at his watch and speaks again.

“I always thought my Christopher was the most beautiful child in all creation. Then I saw Dean.”

Those words awaken John’s bitterness as much as his pride. He's always been ill-at-ease with Dean's beauty, as if a man could hold the sun and ask others not to bask in its warmth.

“Don’t believe I’ve ever seen a more glorious creature.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You agree?”

“Well, I’m his father so, I’m naturally biased.”

“Sure, but you’ve seen other children.”

John swallows the swamp sludge lodged in his throat. “Of course.”

“Then you know what I mean.”

John holds his bifurcated tongue. The conversation is going to his head, making him dizzy, curdling the contents of his stomach.

“There’s no shame in stating the truth. I’ll spare you the sin of pride. Dean is a special child.”

“Rev, I’m sorry. I’m feeling a little…” John shakes head.

Is there a word to describe the muddle in his skull?

The Rev smiles. “Well, then, son, by all means, go lie down. And think on what I’ve said, won’t you?”

John nods, stands and stumbles

“Need a hand there, Johnny?”

This isn’t normal vertigo and John can sure hold his liquor better than this. His eyes narrow. “Did you—”

“Hey, now. Don’t struggle.” Duckett tucks himself under his arm. “You’ll fall right on the floor, and I won’t be able to pick you up.”

John’s will to fight comes out as a feeble lurch. A minute later, the old man delivers him safely to his bed.

“Rest good now, boy.”

Reverend Duckett is hobbling toward Dean’s cot when John’s vision fades to black.


	6. Chapter 6

“Go back to sleep, Sam,” The Reverend whispers as he carries Dean from the room.

Good idea.  
Sam closes his eyes, sticks his fingers in his mouth and goes back to sleep.

When he wakes up again, there’s banging and Dean shouting.

Sam mutters for his daddy, but Daddy gets grumpy when Sam wakes him up. Mean and yelly and sometimes, he hits. Better for Sam to crawl out of his cot and find out for himself.

Sucking hard on his fingers, Sam lets his fingers trail the wall as he wanders down the long, long, dark, dark hall toward the big door. Daddy and Dean and the Reverend never open that door, but Dean is on the other side begging and banging.

“Please. Please, Daddy. Let me out.”

Sam can’t reach the knob, so he stares at it for a minute. His tiny heart twitters at twice the pace. What if what’s inside that room isn’t Dean at all, but something green and scaly, or invisible and dead?

“Daddy!” Another loud thump.

Sam jumps back. “Dean?”

“Sam? Sammy? I can’t open the door. Go get Daddy, buddy.”

But Daddy is sleeping. Daddy gets mean. Better to get the Reverend, but the Reverend’s room is empty.

Finally, Sam takes his fingers from his mouth to drag a heavy chair across the wood floor. It scrapes, and screeches, and he has to take a break because it’s so heavy.

“Sam? Daddy. Daddy!” Dean is banging again.

Once Sam reaches the door and shimmies up onto the chair, the knob won’t turn for his chubby fingers. His nose itches and stings. He can’t help Dean. All he can do is sit in his chair and cry and cry and cry.

“Sammy,” Dean says on the other side of the big big door. “Sammy, don’t. Don’t cry. It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m going to try to break a window.”

Dean is stuck, but he’s not giving up. Sam hops off his chair and falls down on his nose. Still crying about that, he waddles back to the bed where Daddy is sleeping, tugs on his arm, pulls on his beard, and cries.

 

***

 

Eventually, Dean throws the lamp hard enough to break the glass, but there are bars on the outside and he's out of ideas. Sam has moved away from the door again.

Why won’t Daddy come? Did he know about this? Did he give the Reverend permission? Dean is going to be in so much trouble.

He stands at the foot of the bed, searching his brain and the dark room for anything that could help him get out and to his brother.

He’s not even supposed to be in this room. They aren’t allowed to come in here, but Reverend Duckett had carried Dean past his sleeping daddy and brought him here. The Reverend himself had sat Dean on this bed.

“It’s all right, son. There ain’t nothing to be scared of. Your daddy’s going to thank me. ”

That had calmed Dean a bit. He was all the way awake now, sitting with his legs folded, waiting for things to make sense. One of the Reverend’s dry claws made Dean raise his chin to the ceiling.

“That’s it,” the old man showed his yellow grin. “We’re going to show your daddy this here home movie, and he’s going to see that you are a natural. So precious. So eager to please, aren’t you, Dean?”

Sometimes, grown-ups just want to know you’re listening. Dean nodded, although he didn’t quite understand.

“And you can show that willful little brother of yours how to be good.”

Dean had heard that one before. He nods again.

“First time I saw you, boy, I knew. More delightful than wine art thou. I liken you to a mare among Pharaoh’s chariot horses. Your eyes are doves.”

Dean could only stare when none of the words makes sense.

“See, Dean, mortal law would have John believe it’s wrong for a man to love his son, but the good book says ‘dominion over all things.’ Now, am I to follow man’s law or trust in the word of my creator?”

A great, big knife clunked heavy on the table beside the bed.

“Don’t you worry, son. We don’t have to use that at all, s’long as you behave like the dear little boy I know you are.”

The Reverend unbuckled his belt.

“Although, it may be your benefit to fear one master as much as you love the other,” he said and zipped down. “And you sure love your daddy, don’t you, boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I know you do. So, you can go ahead and fear me.”

Dean's eyes bugged wide as the old man dropped and stepped out of his dusty old jeans.

“A rose of Sharon, you are, Dean. Your father, with all his hunger, would wait until you’re too old to understand.”

The skin hangs off the Reverend’s legs like a sick chicken.

“We are, every one of us made in God’s image. As the lion, so the lamb. The good Lord made me as old and ugly as he made you young and graceful. All in his image.”

Reverend Duckett stepped beside a camera on three legs, even skinnier than his.

“Did you know, Dean, that some scholars interpret the word blade to mean a man’s rod?”

Dean shook his head.

“There are heathen cultures who still pass the father’s seed to the son to show his worth. Do you know what a rite of passage is, Dean?”

“No, sir.”

“I’ll show you.” The Reverend smiled. “And when your father sees how you shine and how quickly you learn…”

All Dean had to do was smile, and look sad, confused, surprised, curious. It was kind of a fun game, especially when the Reverend told silly jokes. He tossed Dean a ball and snapped pictures of him catching and throwing it back.

Click click click click.

“I delight to sit in his shade, and his fruit is sweet to my taste. You are some beautiful boy, Dean Winchester, you know that?”

Dean’s mommy used to sing a song about that. It was different from the Reverend, though Dean didn’t know why. He scratched his itchy nose and shrugged.

Reverend Duckett licked out his tongue. Dean laughed and did it, too.

“There you go. Hold it out, just like that.”

When Dean’s tongue got dry he sighed. “Can we be done?”

“Soon, sweetheart,” the Reverend said. “Why don’t you take off your shirt for me?”

Dean scrunched up his face.

“Do you want me to be mean or nice?”

“Nice.”

“Of course, you do.”

The room wasn’t cold without his shirt, but it felt like something slimy-cold was slithering on his neck.

Next, Dean was to raise his arms, fold them behind his head and try to lick his armpit. That was so silly, he didn’t mind trying. His tongue could almost reach.

“Good. Now, I want you to pinch your nipples for me.”

Dean did it, but he didn’t like it. It felt kind of nice, but Reverend Duckett wasn’t even taking pictures anymore. His hands were down his saggy, old underwear.

“Stand up in the middle of the bed, darling.”

“Can we be done now?”

“Stand on the bed, Dean.”

Dean sighed and stood.

“Jump. Like a monkey. Go on.”

That was pretty fun, too.

Click Click Click

“Good job. Now, take off your pants.”

Dean froze in the middle of the bed.

“Come on, right now. Take ‘em off.”

Dean always wants to be a good boy. Life is easier, Daddy is nicer when Dean does what he’s told. But this wasn’t Dean’s daddy telling him to take off his pants. It wasn’t time for a bath.

“Fine. If you prefer mean, we’ll start with a small cut.” Reverend Duckett limped toward the table with the knife. “If I mark your skin, I might as well sacrifice you all, ‘cause your daddy ain’t going to like it.”

His face had melted into a monster mask. Dean jumped down and ran for the door. Of course, it was locked when there was an old man coming after him with a big knife. Dean ducked under the grabby claw and screamed for his daddy.

 

***

 

Some fat lady singing opera morphs into an air raid siren in Nam. All at once, it’s Sam crying. Why is Sam always crying?

As John sits up a boxer slams his fist against the inside of his skull. He groans into his palm and picks at the drool encrusted to the corner of his parched mouth.

Somewhere Sam is howling the blues, but not in his cot. Not even in the bedroom.  
Stil iin the cabin, it sounds like. With any luck, the Reverend is tending to him. Doubt niggles at John’s gut without providing details.

Standing fails the first time. The second time, he makes it his feet and the room tilts. Both the boys’ cots are empty. His blood raging in his veins doesn’t make it any easier to remain upright.

“Dean?”

Still, just Sam, wailing.

John follows the sound out of the room, down the hall, to Christopher Duckett’s door.  
Christopher, Reverend Duckett’s runaway son.

Dean knows better than to be in there. The Reverend has respectfully asked them not to go into that one room. It wouldn’t be like Dean to disregard that request. Sam, on the other hand … It’s no wonder that little imp has dragged a chair down the hallway and tried to muscle his way in, against the rules, in the middle of the night.

That makes no sense. Sam is a handful, but he’s two. What the hell is going on? Is this a dream? Is that why the edges of John’s vision are so hazy and the whole world feels like vinegar?

“All right,” he says. “Hush.”

He picks up the wailing and flailing boy. Sam squeals the syllable he makes for Dean’s name, “DEEEEE!!!”

“Enough, Sam! I mean it.”

“Daddy?” Dean calls out from the other side of the door, bangs and screams.

The knob won’t turn from John’s side. Jerking it back and forth doesn’t help.

“Daddy. Let me out, please.”

So, Dean is the naughty one, after all. This is a spanking offense, and Dean will owe their host one hell of an apology and explanation. Chasing a cricket is not going to be good enough reason for going into this room.

John takes Sam from the chair, sets him on his feet. “Go to bed. Now, Sam, go.”

The crying has stopped, but Sam hiccups around the fingers jammed in his mouth. He stares until John stomps on the floor.

“Now!”

The little cockroach scurries away so John can turn his attention on this door and the list of punishments he’s going to heap on Dean. Angry as he is, he doesn’t want to do any lasting harm.

“Get back, Dean. Move away from the door.”

John steps back and aims his front kick, busting the door open on its hinges.

The old man lays in a dark puddle, his gnarled, lifeless fingers fail to clutch the knife hilt jutting from his throat. Somehow, the dried blood on the Reverend’s hands, his shirt and splattered on the bed kickstarts John’s memory.

The splash of whiskey, a rare gift. The Reverend’s calm comfort as he helped John stumble to bed. The chill washes over John not only because the Reverend poisoned him, but because how easily the old man could have made it murder.

Why didn’t he? What in God’s name happened in here?

As John strains to piece together the story with the visible clues, Dean rises on the other side of the bed, old blood caked in his face and hair.

“Oh, God.”

Dean runs to his father’s outstretched arms, lets himself be hugged and petted. Finally, John puts him on his feet, raises both arms.

“Are you hurt?”

Dean shakes his head.

“You did that?”

Dean hesitates, then nods.

John doesn’t ask why. Not now. Doesn’t want to know. The first line of the boy’s training is clear: defend yourself.

“Where the hell did you get the knife?”

“It was his one.” Dean’s voice is scratchy and small.

Why is he hoarse? Has he been choked… or gagged.

John examines the boy’s neck, but it’s impossible to discern anything with Dean’s hair down to his bare chest smeared Burgundy like a little devil. All that’s missing are the glowing yellow eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

Steam wafts off the water when John lowers his son into the bath. Dean squirms and whines about the temperature. Still, John leaves the boy in the tub the way you’d soak away the caked-on grime from a pan. Or maybe more like you’d slow simmer a pot of gumbo.

Duckett’s grave is easy digging with the ground all pliant after the storm. Having dug over fifty in the last two years, John’s secure with his depth and width. In the throes of the work, he contemplates the man of God who was his last defense against the wiles of the mini-incubus. If temptation overtook his mentor, what chance does John have?

On the other hand, the old man will be pleased that his cabin is being donated to the Winchester family trust.

As agreeable as in life, Duckett’s corpse is a willing participant. Can’t be a hundred pounds of flesh and bone rolled in the soiled bedding. John salts and burns, his heart ringing out a dual eulogy of 'Rest in Peace' and 'Rot in Hell' while his tongue doesn’t try a word.

John returns to the cabin, flips the mattress and covers it with fresh linens. The blood-soaked wood is more stubborn. Ultimately, a rug from the living room covers over the multitude of sins.

_Manslaughter? What manslaughter?_

John nearly locks the room for good when he notices the old man’s camera in the corner, the red light indicating that it’s still recording.

“Jesus.”

It’s a relatively new model. Not cheap, either. Nikon. After a bit of fumbling, John discovers the stills of Dean giggling and jumping on the bed. The Reverend was right. One adorable kid. Was he going to sell these? To who? Why didn’t the old man just ask?

Because John would have done what Dean did, only with greater finesse and far more pain.

John presses play. He sits on the edge of the bed, covers his mouth and watches the entire thing: from the moment Duckett carries Dean into the room, through the old man's peculiar monologue, to the moment he falls on the knife in Dean’s hand. Fast-forward through the three hours of Dean and Sam screaming and enter John Winchester like the entire SWAT division.

This camera should be buried with its owner. As it is, John finds a way - he thinks - to erase all traces of Dean from the tape. He’s not stupid enough to believe he can use these things. Only an insane person creates that kind of evidence.

By the time John returns to the bathroom, Dean’s chin is on his knees in the cold, pink water. His teeth chatter behind purple lips.

"Sorry, baby. Had to clean up your mess."

As John replaces some of the water with warm, an old, familiar refrain bounces around his brain. He could wash Dean's body as a funeral rite. In a matter of minutes, his torment could be over. Then, he'll bathe Sam, bury them together, and be free.

He kisses the dried grime on Dean’s precious hair. With the gentlest pressure, the boy complies to slide under the water.

To kill an incubus requires beheading and burning, but John doesn’t actually believe that’s what his son is. He's an unfortunately beautiful little boy kicking and flailing, splashing water everywhere. One full minute of resolve, that’s all John needs. One full minute of hot tears and a firm hand.

Only Dean is not the problem, is he? John’s affliction didn’t start with Dean. It won’t end this way. John's sights will simply fall on other prey and eventually, he'll be weak. But maybe John can slake his thirst. Perhaps, even, the Reverend’s sermon on the video was the word of God. Maybe Dean is Heaven's way of tossing him a meaty bone.

He releases Dean's head and the boy leaps up sputtering and wide-eyed. He coughs and gasps, too baffled to even question his father.

“Remember what the Reverend said about baptism?” Without meeting his betrayed eyes, John reminds Dean of the Biblical idea of one bath to cleanse a soul of every sin past, future and present.

Dean nods, still fighting for breath.

“Whatever happened in that room. Whatever happens next, God forgives you now.”

 

***

 

The baptism was scary, but at least now Dean is safe. God can be pretty mean.

It hurts, the way Daddy is rubbing. Dean’s chest changes from bloody to white, like normal. Daddy scrubs some more until Dean is bright pink like chicken meat before you cook it.

Dean doesn’t complain. He wants to be clean.

The last of the red bath water swirls like a tornado as the drain shlurps down the blood and dirt.

Daddy doesn’t bring a towel. He plucks Dean out of the water and carries his dripping body out of the bathroom. On his way to the front door, he drags the quilt off the sofa. Once they're outside, Daddy spreads them out like a picnic: the boy, on his back, on the blanket, on the grass, underneath the wide, black sky all clogged with pale stars.

Daddy kneels beside him.

“You cold?”

His voice is quiet and strange, shaky.

The peepers and the clickers are twice as loud out here. Dean feels even tinier, like a speck of dust in a world of stars and frogs and crazy old men with cameras.

Daddy asks again and Dean nods. His hair is still wet and he’s shivering cold, even though the air on his skin is warm. Somebody spilled ice all inside of him.

“Do you know what happened?”

Dean knows all right. Mr. Duckett is dead. Dean didn’t mean to make him dead, just to stop the man from tugging on his pants.

Now, it’s done, and Daddy’s going to whip Dean bad. It doesn’t happen often. Mostly, spankings are for when Sam won’t stop crying. Then Dean begs and tugs in his daddy’s arm until he stops. But there’s nobody to beg on Dean’s behalf.

He squeezes his eyes tight and braces for the yelling and the hitting. This spanking, he deserves.

When Dean was little, if he’d step on an ant or a spider, his mommy would tell him to say sorry to God for killing one of His creatures. Boy, would she be disappointed now. Since she’s in heaven, Dean owes her an apology, too.

Before he can say the words, Daddy kisses the center of Dean’s chest and slimes his tongue along his collar bone. He never did that before. Now Dean's got a hot shiver and a swimmy belly.

“Don’t move,” Daddy whispers.

Then, he leaves Dean all alone, like a hunk of meat left on the lawn for a bear. Or a sacrifice for God.

Dean would run after his daddy or cry, but his body is frozen jello. He couldn’t stand up if he tried. All he can do is lay on the ground and hope his daddy hurries back.


	8. Chapter 8

John doesn’t need much from the house: a bar of chocolate and that bottle of whiskey. Before he goes back outside, he stands in the middle of the floor waiting for the strike of lightning, for the ground to swallow him whole. If Someone is going to stop him, now would be the time. 

But nothing happens except for the screen door slamming a bit too loud.

For a while, John lays on his back beside his son. He tucks a hand under his own head, occasionally leaning up for slow swigs. Dean gasps at a shooting star and John grins.

The night symphony is loud, but Dean's breathing is the solo. It's close and slow and John’s blood simmers at the sound. His entire body thrums as he rolls over and inhales the soapy-sweet boy scent as if it were a narcotic. 

The porch light is just enough to see Dean by when he nuzzles and then kisses his son’s cheek like any loving father.

“You want some?”

Before the boy can answer, John pinches Dean’s chin and pours in a mouthful of firewater. It dribbles down his chin and chest as Dean spews and coughs.

"Swallow, boy. Swallow."

The poor kid sits upright and hisses like a lizard. 

At first sight of that tiny tongue, John traps Dean’s skull between his huge palms and licks into his mouth, as if cleaning away the bad taste. He glides over baby teeth (his little later bloomer hasn’t lost a single one yet).

Dean grips his father’s shirt and lets loose a high pitched whine that only makes John want more.

He’s waited this long, he can go slow. Better to go slow and savor every moment, rather than speed ahead and burn out too fast.

John pulls back and asks, “Better?”

Dean’s eyes are wide and dark with confusion. John’s wide and dark with lust.

“You know I’m not mad at you, right?”

Dean nods. John twines their fingers and kisses Dean’s knuckles. He settles onto his back and holds the boy paw on his chest, like any Papa pointing out Cassiopeia and Orion. Dean already knows the Big and Little Dipper. The last time they’d had father/son time like this was before Mary died.

John swills more whiskey in his cheeks to dilute the bite. Then he supports Dean’s head and offers to spill the liquid between his reluctant lips.

“Daddy, I don’t like it.”

John presses their lips together and makes him take it. He smiles at the curl of Dean’s nose and the cute sneeze that follows.

This time, John makes no attempt to mask the kiss as something other than adoration. A sweet, gentle slide of his mouth against that of his beloved. A whimper rises in his throat. If anyone was ever broken by a kiss, it’s John Winchester in this moment.

“Open,” he says and his darling obeys.

John laps and laves the inside of Dean’s mouth, creating a mental map of the ridges on the roof, the tender flesh in his jowls, the taste.

John’s hand closes all the way around a slender arm. As Dean whimpers and struggles John grows harder than he’s ever been in his life. He squeezes tightly, then rubs the soft, little arm. He presses his fingertips to the tender skin between Dean’s backbones, pulling him closer.

The boy is trembling. Needs his daddy to keep him warm.

John smooths back his hair and lets Dean rest from the kiss.

“Did you like that, baby?”

Although his sight has adjusted to the night, John still can’t make out the green of Dean’s eyes. But the fear in his stilted breath is turning John right out of his mind.

“Shhh. You’re all right. Daddy’s got you, right?”

Dean tries a smile.

“Yeah.”

John’s thumb traces cheekbone, back and forth over a quivering lower lip before he takes another taste of heaven.

How on earth? Why has John waited for this? And let himself suffer? And denied Dean his chance to outshine everything in the night sky?

There’s nothing wrong here. Only a chaste and holy kiss between a man and his son. It doesn’t matter that John’s zipper is strained. He’s not taking any more than this, is he?

Of course, he could do damage with a kiss. For instance, John could bite down on this young flesh and tear it right from Dean’s face.

He could disfigure him for life. Then no one else would want him.

But John’s not doing that, is he? He’s not jealous enough to steal Dean’s beauty from himself.

“Lay flat, son.”

John hovers on all fours. He lowers no weight on the boy, is nowhere near crushing him. This is just the right position to ghost a palm hands over his face, his shoulders, letting fingertips linger over the perfect contours, caress the silken skin.

Amid all this perfection, John is drawn back to the sweet, plush mouth. He could spend the rest of his life kissing this boy. Sucking and nipping until that lower lip grows even plumper and red as a berry while Dean lies here, wide open to the plundering.

John nuzzles each pretty cheek, Dean’s forehead, his eyes. His chinny chin chin. The soft, warm neck. He rests his face against the center of Dean’s hot, churning belly.

John could take them if he wanted, the insides. He could sink in his teeth and bite Dean open. Squeeze the slippery hot mess between his fingers.

As a boy, he’d carved open squirrels and rabbits in the name of science. Could he not do the same in worship? It would be sacred to know this body inside and out.

Yellow eyes flick bright. It’s hard to know whether it’s in the night or in John’s mind.

“No!” He shouts and startles his lover.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Dean.” John pets him, panting and sweating at the intrusion. “I will never hurt you. You understand?”

Dean nods.

“Am I hurting you now?”

Dean shakes his head, but his eyes glisten with the promise of tears. The chocolate! How could John forget? He breaks off a piece and chews. Dean only watches, silent.

“Do you want some?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, please.”

“Yes, please, who?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“And why should daddy give you some?”

Dean rolls in his lips. He doesn’t know the answer. Because there is no reason. The only reason for John to share his chocolate is mercy and kindness.

“Because I love you, silly.”

He cracks off another piece, melts it in his mouth before bird-feeding his baby boy. John needs a hand now to restrain the greedy serpent in his pants.

He puts the candy aside to thumb tight circles around tiny pebbled nipples. The boy’s mouth falls open, his little hands wrap around John’s wrists, but only to hold tight. There’s no resistance. Then the hands fall at Dean’s sides and his head tilts back, eyes closed in rapture.

The things John can do with this innocent, inexperienced body. The sensations he’ll wring out of Dean as a gift to himself. How could he have ever believed God would deny him this?

“That’s it, baby. Just relax.”

John massages and watches Dean’s face contort in bewildered pleasure. Then he pinches until Dean’s expression changes to pain and betrayal.

“Did that hurt, Dean?”

Of course, it did. The boy doesn’t even have to nod. It’s a hard lesson, but one he needs to learn now.

“How about this?” Dean tenses as John thumbs the other nip. “Does this hurt?”

The boy hesitates but shakes his head.

“No. It feels good, doesn’t it?”

Dean blinks and nods.

“Yeah, it does.”

On his knees with Dean on his back, John slides a hand down his pants. His son’s eyes flick low to watch. All yours, in time, boy.

“Whenever Daddy does something that feels really good, I want you to say ‘more.’ Can you do that for me?”

Dean nods.

And now a test. John needs both hands. He kneads fragile ribs, licks a nipple and blows a stream of cool air. The boy arcs like a bow.

John kisses his sternum, sucks the skin, flicks his tongue.

Dean gasps and murmurs, “More.”

“That’s right, baby.”

What a fucking miracle.

Now, John bites, not hard enough to draw blood. Just enough to hurt.

“Ow,” Dean yells and curls into himself.

There’s no one for miles and Dean’s pain heats the base John’s spine the same way his pleasure does. He wraps a hand around a throat he could squeeze, snap, shatter. Dean lies perfectly still beneath his father’s hand, both breathing hard. Neither certain what’s coming next.

“If it hurts, Daddy doesn’t mean it. Daddy only wants to love you. Right?”

John is discovering that he might want to torture his son as much as he wants to fuck him, but he’s not an unreasonable man. It’s hard to nod with a fist on your throat. He loosens his grip enough for the sound to travel past Dean’s vocal cords.

“Let me hear you.”

“Yes, daddy.”

“If it ever hurts, I want you to say, ‘I love you.’ Do you understand?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good boy.”

He strokes Dean’s soft belly, pinches a little. Then tighter. Beneath John’s other palm, he feels Dean swallow. The boy squeezes his eyes shut. His jaw tightens.

John swells at his tolerance. The potential. Dean could be trained to withstand much more. To even like it.

But not tonight.

John’s fingernails meet. He didn’t mean to tear the skin, but if that’s what it takes to teach the lesson.

John’s body is on fire now. Dean whispers and he leans close enough to smell the tears. A tiny ocean pouring out of his son.

“Why didn’t you say it? That hurt, didn’t it?”

Dean sniffles.

“What are you supposed to say, Dean? If Daddy hurts you. How are you supposed to let me know?”

“Can we please go inside?”

John covers Dean’s mouth and nose until he struggles for air. He licks away the trickle of blood from the tiny wound on his son’s side. Dean kicks and fights the hand on his face. This isn’t what John intended, but it’s so good.

He lets Dean breathe and shifts him on the quilt. The boy gasps and tries to army-crawl away.

“I need this to sink in, Dean. I need you to understand.”

John flips him onto his back, pins his wrists at his sides and sucks his son’s skinny hipbone until he rises into it. His sobs are wordless pleading and John is going to cream his shorts.

“What do you say, son?”

Dean asks for more.

“Good.” John bites the meat of his forearm and Dean screams. “What do you say?”

The stubborn mule only groans.

“Why are you being so difficult? Do you want me to really hurt you? Is that it?”

Dean remains silent. Headstrong like his father. But they’ve got all night. They have forever. John will break and mold his boy into exactly what he needs to be. Isn’t that what fatherhood is all about? Never sparing the rod lest you spoil the child.

Choking and pinching is one thing. With this, it’s hard to gauge the proper amount of pressure. John’s never practiced this on such a small body. But if they’re going to be lovers, Dean has got to learn. This obstinance will only keep them both from happiness.

With a thumb, John applies a quarter of the pressure he’d use to incapacitate a fellow Marine. The brachial plexus is a good point and god, does it work.

Dean screams so loud and long that the wild things hush to listen.

John stands over him, pure fire surging through his veins. His dick salivating at all the sweet, beautiful suffering. For a moment, John sways on his feet.

He’s waited long enough. Pulls out his dick and starts to stroke.

Eventually, Dean rolls up like a hedgehog, shuddering and sniffling. John kneels, supports himself on the one hand so he can lick the sweat from Dean’s back while he jerks.

“What do you say, son? If Daddy hurts you.”

Dean chews his lip a moment before he whispers, “I love you, Daddy.”

“Daddy loves you, too, baby.”

Daddy loves Dean so much that he lays behind him, grunting and quivering and biting Dean’s shoulder as he releases into his own hand. Tears of sweet release and joy stream down his face and John doesn't even bother to wipe them away. He has every right to cry. He's a 38 year old man finally entrusting his virginity to the love of his life.

Once he's recovered, John cleans his hand in the grass. He pulls his darling into his lap and kisses the remnants of spice and chocolate from his mouth. Cradles him in one arm like a baby, smoothing back his hair.

“You're so beautiful,” he says. “You want to go inside now?”

Dean hides his face in his father's shoulder like a coy newlywed bride. John kisses his hair. He removes his shirt and carries his son skin to skin - kangaroo care the nurses suggested the day he was born. Dean’s little minnow of a penis clings to his father’s stomach. His legs are wide as any wanton woman, ankles crossed at the base of John’s back.

Duckett was right. How could John have missed it before? His boy not only wants this kind of love, he was born for it.


	9. Chapter 9

Once Dean is asleep on his cot, John returns to the porch. He slowly smokes another cigarette, staring up at the stars. Thanking the lord in heaven. And Reverend Jeremiah Duckett, wherever he might be.

Then, he returns to Christopher’s room to stand on the hallowed ground where he’d first seen Dean for what he is. After this, he’ll close this room once and for all. Rather than bury the camera, John puts it in the top dresser drawer and discovers that besides being a pioneer, the Reverend was a certifiable lunatic, the kind with keepsakes.

That drawer brims with wallets: maybe fifty, leather, fabric, thick, thin, each one belonging to a different boy between the ages of 12 and 17. How many of these boys made it home? In the months since they’ve been here, Duckett had no guests. This mad old man created the perfect secluded hideout, and he did precisely whatever he wanted here. 

God gave him dominion over the earth. 

The second drawer is full of VHS tapes and John can’t resist choosing one at random. A young teen follows every instruction and ends jerking himself like a porn star.

It’s nearly dawn and John is growing exhausted by the eventful night, but this discovery inspires a new search. He raids the closet and under the bed uncovering a treasure trove of a tradesman’s tools:

Anal plugs in an assortment of sizes from a twig’s width to a monster 12” cock that could never fit inside a human being.  
A lifetime supply of water-based lubes (depending on the lifetime)  
Rope  
Cuffs  
An industrial sized first aid kit including antibiotics and sedatives  
Various other stainless steel devices John can’t even identify 

Beneath the bed, he finds a fully-adjustable, homemade stocks.

“You fucking maniac,” John grins and says aloud to the spirit that must still inhabit this room. 

Even a dead man would never leave this haven he’s created. For the first time, John feels a mournful longing for the Reverend, his mentor. A father figure of sorts.

John’s lids are growing heavy as the birds start singing about dawn. He settles on the bed with another cassette of a boy pleasuring himself. The next boy is on his hands and knees, showing off the new button in his asshole. John devours the content, feeling like a husband with a porn addiction. Would Dean take issue with him watching this?

The boys just look so relaxed. So into it. The man had a gift. They never seem coerced or uncomfortable. Probably runaways who’d worked for their supper and board, just like John and his boys.  
   
While there are no grown men, no girls or women, Duckett didn’t discriminate about shape or skin color. But none of them is nearly so young or beautiful as John’s Dean. 

The old man must have seen the boy and heard Christmas carols. And in John he recognized a potential accomplice. A protege’.

There’s no telling whether John would have gone for that. It’s risky business with other people’s children.  In all his days of want, he only ever solicited a boy once. That had not ended well. But with Duckett’s years of expertise, John might have learned a better way.

But going after Dean was an unforgivable offense. It’s best that the universe saw fit to dispense of him as it did. John would likely still be slicing away the flesh.

If only the old man had kept a meticulous diary, like John has done in his hunt for the demon. No sooner does the thought flash across his mind than John searches the house for paper. In his ransacking, he comes across a stash that must amount to several thousand dollars. 

It really has been some hell of a night.

Right now, though, John just wants paper. He could wait until he’s able to buy a proper book, but it’s always best to journal while the memory is fresh on his fingertips.  
Finally, in frustration, he tears a gilded blank page from the back of the Duckett family Bible. 

He dates the upper right corner and writes:

_It began tonight with a kiss. I owe a debt of gratitude to my old friend Jeremiah whose great sacrifice brought us together. I may never have had the courage without his faith._

_J + D forever_

 

***

 

No wonder they all sleep late. It’s nearly noon when John is the first to wake. He lingers in bed, stroking his wood, wallowing in the fuzzy remnants of his dream: Dean coming to him, pleading for it. 

“Daddy, I need it tonight, please?” 

His little boy couldn’t get enough. He’d moaned and begged like a cherubic whore. John pounds one out before he gets up.

In celebration of their consummation, he hums about the kitchen, gathering ingredients for pancakes from scratch. He’s a slightly better cook than Mary ever was, which isn’t saying much. The boys don’t complain.

Sam wanders in with his fingers in his mouth. John serves him the first raggedy attempts so that by the time Dean joins them, the recipe is perfect. Smothered with syrup, these things are damn good. 

John smiles at his darling. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

Dean scratches his belly. His lips are all red and puffy from stubble and over-stimulation. John wants to suck his mouth right now.

“I dreamed about you,” he whispers.

Dean’s eyes are barely open, but his brows raise in curiosity. John can’t give him a proper good morning kiss because Sam is right there, watching. Always watching and his speech is getting clearer every day. All John needs is for him to slip and say the wrong thing. 

Caution is wise.

No kisses, but Dean does get a Mickey Mouse pancake. And a ruffle of his hair. And a kiss on the cheek. Can’t let Sam ruin everything. 

By the time John sits down to his plate, Dean still hasn’t even touched his pancake. 

“Stop scratching, Dean. That’s not nice.”

Dean does stop, for a moment. He’s back at it the moment John stands for more butter. 

“Come here.” John makes him stands, lifts his shirt and gasps. “Jesus.”

He pulls off the shirt for a proper view. The boy looks like a creature from a Dr. Seuss book. A pink polka-dotted sneech or something. He’s all bitten to hell. A quick estimate of fifty, bright-red angry bumps in the front and twice that peppered across his back. Mosquitos, chiggers. Something’s got him. Some of them are bleeding from the scratching.

John's fault, of course. Swamp bugs are vicious. He should have slathered the boy, but who wants DEET on his tongue? He'd wanted to breathe Dean's scent, just the way God made him. Besides the bug bites, he's got adult teeth marks on one arm and more passion marks than John would have given himself credit for. All in all, the skin on Dean's torso's is more red and inflamed than white. 

He scratches again and John catches his hands, holding them out wide. Dean wiggles and whines. It’s adorable, but something has to be done. 

But only after John washes the syrup out of Sam’s fingers and hair. He pulls a fresh shirt onto the little imp, scolding his younger boy through the drudgery. Then, he changes the pee-saturated diaper, skips on the wiping and gives the brat one of the Reverend’s picture bibles.

Finally free, John lays the three bowls on the counter. The first he fills with piping hot water. The second is for white vinegar. In the third, he mixes a paste of flour and lard. By the time he’s ready for the wash cloth, the first bowl has chilled to warm. 

He removes every stitch of Dean’s clothing and has the boy raise his arms.

“I’m going to need you to be tough.”

Dean takes the wipe down like a champ. John checks that Sam is engaged in his book before he rewards Dean with a kiss on the lips for his bravery.

When John moves on to the vinegar, Dean hisses and writhes like a demon tortured with holy water. His eyes shine as he sucks on his bottom lip. 

“What are you supposed to say, Dean?”

“I love you, Daddy.”

“Good boy,” John says. “It’ll be all better in a moment.” 

Dean nods and watches John stir the paste the desired consistency. 

“Gimme a kiss.”

Smiling, John pecks Dean’s puckered lips. He’s barely had time to slather the bites on Dean’s shoulder when Sam calls out, “Daddy!”

John swears under his breath. “What Sam?”

He turns around and Sam is right there. His eyes are blue-today and wide. Dean grins, holding his arms out wide to show off for his brother’s entertainment. 

“Look at all these booboos, Sammy.”

Sam starts to touch and John smacks his hand. The vinegar was a disinfectant. Can’t have these grubby fingers spreading bacteria. 

Sam watches quietly for a few seconds before he asks if he can do some, too. 

Dean says, “Sure” in unison with John’s, “No.”

Sam frowns, confused.

“Listen, you know what, Sam. Daddy has something special for you.”

The Reverend had cautioned about the overuse of juice, but this is an emergency and the Reverend ain’t here. But his little medicine cabinet is.

Why on earth should John wait until night to have his special time with Dean? He takes a single pill from the glass. The dosage information is for the Reverend himself, so with a bit of approximation, he stirs a portion of powder from the crushed pill into a glass, stirs, and gives Sam his drink.

“May I have some, too, please, Daddy?”

That is an idea. The things John could do with Dean’s body while he’s unconscious. But part of the joy is the look on his face. His response. The catch in his breath. His timid little voice. 

Dean gets regular juice. 

John gets his sacred quiet in under twenty minutes. Sam lies on the sofa with his mouth open. Dead to the world. 

Not dead. John checks his pulse. Still strong and rapid. He could always up the dose and… So much land out there yet to till.

Right now, he’s got what he wants. The paste is a loss, though. John mixes a fresh batch and lovingly, carefully treats each of Dean’s bites. 

As he leans for another kiss, it occurs to him that Sam’s aren’t the only lips that might be loose. 

“Son, do you know what private is?”

Dean shakes his head and John touches his nose.

“It’s something that’s not for everybody. Like this.” John licks Dean’s cupid’s bow, and he opens for the kiss.

Such a quick learner. 

“This is private. Just between me and you. Understand?”

“What about Sammy?”

“No. Not Sammy and not anybody else. Just you.” John touches Dean’s hand to his own chest and then to his. “And me.”


	10. Chapter 10

 Dean giggles and hunches up his shoulders at the tickly way his daddy sniffs his neck and nips his ears. Sometimes Daddy rubs his face in Dean’s hair with his arms tight around his waist and the jeans scratch under his bottom. 

It would be better to have his clothes back on, but Daddy won’t let him because the mosquito stuff has to dry and then stay aired out. Daddy’s hand sits on Dean’s leg for a little while, then it spider-creeps right up to his wiener. 

Dean jumps down so fast that Daddy didn’t even expect it. Can’t catch him. He’s like the gingerbread man already in the hallway before Daddy shouts his name. 

Dean stops. He could keep running, but where? There isn’t anywhere in the cabin he can hide. He could run outside, but the bugs are just going to eat him up more. 

He turns and faces his daddy. He’s going to do more weird, tummy-bubbling stuff to Dean like last night. But maybe maybe maybe if Dean is good, he won’t do anything else hurty.

Maybe if Dean tells him he loves him now, Daddy won’t have to pinch and bite him later. 

Daddy stands and pulls off his shirt. “It’s hot, isn’t it?”

Dean nods even though it’s not. He watches Daddy’s hairy fingers open his button and zip down his zipper. 

“Come here.” Daddy holds open his hand.

He’s all naked, too, like Dean and sitting on the sofa. Daddy is covered in black fur instead of red bumps and white paste. 

“Dean, I said come here.”

Dean steps closer. Daddy holds his weewee, petting it softly like a big big snake. Well, not so long like a snake, but long enough. And fat, like one of those kind that hug people to death. Daddy smiles when he sees where Dean is looking. 

“Do you know what this is?”

Dean nods. He’s not stupid. He’s got a weewee, too.

But when he says it Daddy laughs. That’s good. Laughing is good. As long as Dean makes Daddy laugh, he’s safe.

“Hop up on your old man’s lap.”

Dean blinks.

“You scared?”

Of course he’s scared. If he sits down on that huge thing, it’s going to bite him or hug him until his bones are squished.

“Don’t be scared. Daddy won’t hurt you if you come here now.”

Daddy lifts Dean by his armpits, twirls him around and sits him down so that the big, scary wiener pokes up between his legs, right behind his own little worm.

“There, see?” Daddy hugs him close and flicks Dean’s nipples until he relaxes. “Perfect fit. Hey Dean, look how big you’ve gotten.”

Dean laughs because sitting like this does make it look like the big one is his, stretching up to his chest. Daddy’s skin sticks to his backside because of the sweat. And Dean’s insides feel all hot and goopy.

“Well, it’s yours,” Daddy says. “You should touch it.”

Dean’s belly goes tight and prickly. When he sees a snake, he wants to touch it, but he also knows those things are dangerous. Daddy makes the choice easy by putting Dean’s hand right on the side.

“How’s that feel?”

“Nice,” Dean says.

It’s smoother than he thought. And warm and not so scary, really.

“Yeah,” Daddy whispers right into Dean’s ear. “You like it?”

Dean nods. He doesn’t feel like a boy anymore. More like a bag of skin all filled up with hot fudge. It’s not an all the way good feeling, but it’s not bad. Slippery and oozy up his back and especially where his daddy’s thing sprouts up like an anteater’s trunk between his legs.

“Touch it some more, baby.”

Dean does what he’s told. Daddy brings up his other hand so he’s holding it like the bat when he played T-ball. Dean always like T-ball. Mommy would shout for him to run, and he would run fast as he could go, all the way home.

Daddy’s thing twitches. Dean squeaks and lets it go.  
   
“It’s okay, Dean. It just likes you, that’s all,” Daddy says. “It gets all hard and big like this because it loves you. And when you touch, it feels so good.”

Daddy kisses Dean’s shoulder. Then, he sucks and that funny fire lights up Dean’s whole body.   
   
He really wants to get down now. When he tries to move, Daddy squeezes him tight around the middle. Not hurty tight, but Dean’s stops wiggling. He sits still while Daddy moves beneath him slow like a hugging snake, breathing loud and ready to eat some little boy meat.

“Up and down,” Daddy says, guiding his hands. “Just like this.”  
   
Dean holds on, does his best even when Daddy moves faster. He presses Dean’s knees closed. “Squeeze your legs together, son.”

Daddy is a scary ride, making rhinoceros noise and crushing while Dean holds onto his wiener so Daddy won’t yell or pinch him.

“Fuck, I’m gonna…”

Gonna what? From the way he’s shaking, Daddy’s going to explode.

“Dean.”

Daddy’s thing feels harder for a second and then it spits all over Dean’s hands. He screams as it spits even more on his legs and his belly. Daddy squashes him even tighter and growls like a polar bear. 

“That was good, baby. So good.”

It wasn’t good. Dean is covered in weiner goo and Daddy still isn’t letting him go. He kisses Dean’s neck, rubbing his chest, turning Dean’s face and sticking his tongue in his mouth. 

Dean likes the slime on TV when they dump it all on people’s heads. This slime smells funny. It’s sticky, and Dean is just about to cry when his daddy grabs his shirt from the floor and wipes it away.

He still doesn’t let Dean go, though. He pulls him close, makes Dean rest his head back on his shoulder so that Daddy can rub his prickly face over Dean’s cheek, and smooch him, and whisper, “I love you” and how Dean is amazing.

He says all kinds of warm and mushy words. On TV, Tom the cat is chasing Jerry the mouse with a chainsaw. It's not really funny right now.


	11. Chapter 11

John’s given up the praying, except in gratitude. After all, God orchestrated the whole thing: made John with this hunger, sent him this delectable child, and guided their path to this place.

Heaven. John can only curse himself for not having claimed this gift sooner.  He’s also reached a concession to take, but not harm, even if Dean can bear it. John will show only love and kindness so that when Dean looks back on his youth it will be with a secret, sacred smile. 

Someday, John might even encourage his teenage son’s explorations. Maybe. But, he’s never giving this up.  

He carries his sleeping beauty down the hall like a sweaty, little princess, stopping only to peek in on Sam. It’s been a few hours, and the room stinks of piss. Who knows how long the kid’s been marinating in it, but John’s not messing with a good thing. 

It takes finagling to open the door to Christopher’s room with Dean in his arms, but John lies him on his belly without rousing more than a groggy groan.

Quietly, John sets up the lube and three smallest plugs. It’s all new territory, was never much into kinky stuff - straight ahead vanilla does the trick when he’s with the girls - but he’s eager to learn, now that he's got a proper lover.  
   
When Dean wakes, it’s with a tongue where there’s never been a tongue. Where there’s been nothing but a little soap and water and Daddy’s cautious fingers taking extra care in cleaning.

“Daddy?”

“Mmm.”

The taste and smell is like pure earth: surprising, delightful. The skin between his cheeks is milky-white and silky-soft, but the hole is clenched so tight it’s hard to believe anything ever passes through there. 

John tries a spitty finger and Dean curls up like a pill bug screeching like he’s on a spit. His father could force it, but he doesn’t. His dick is already hard again from the taste of Dean and watching him squirm.

“I don’t like this room.”

“It’s okay, baby. Daddy’s got you. I’m right here,” John says, needlessly.

If anybody knows where John is it’s baby Dean. Papa John is right between his legs, lapping sloppy stripes from his balls up his taint right to the dip of his spine. Swirling his tongue round and around a little whirlpool he’d love to dive into.

“How does that feel, son?”

No response.

“Do you like it?”

Dean’s hum is close enough to Yes. John gives him a light slap, jiggles his fleshy little cheeks. He offers Dean the smallest plug to suck. It’s not much longer or thicker than one of his dainty fingers. 

Dean frowns, doesn’t open. That earns him a sound slap on the rump. Dean cracks off a fart that stinks like vengeance. How can his insides smell like rotten broccoli when Dean would rather die than eat the stuff?

John spanks him harder now. “You nasty little piglet.”

“Sorry, Daddy.”

“All the more reason to plug up this little hole. Save the world from your nasty gases.”

John smiles at his joke. He’s squirting lube onto the small black button when green-eyes peek over Dean’s shoulder. The boy’s going to chew a hole in his lower lip. So fucking sexy.

John leans over him, dwarfing his body and stealing a kiss. Dean’s tongue cowers at the bottom of his mouth while John boldly explores where no man has gone before. He sweeps along smooth gums, dances along the ridges on the roof.

Then John surprises them both by replacing his tongue with the plug. No sweet request and waiting for compliance. He shoves it in. Dean stills for a moment, then sucks like it’s a pacifier.

“I’m not a baby,” he pouts around the button, cuter than any infant and sending a cruel, impatient heat through his daddy’s nervous system.

“Good,” John says. “Make it nice and wet.”

He draws the plug out an inch and presses it back in. 

Dean’s questioning eyes shine bottle-green in the sliver of sunlight sneaks between the curtains. John would love to rip back the fabric and show the world his treasure. It’s wiser, though, to horde like a pirate. Good ol’ Duckett knows of dead men’s tales. 

John removes the plug from his son’s mouth. With a surgeon’s precision and a furrowed brow, he holds one of Dean’s cheeks aside and applies the moistened tip to his hole.

Dean tenses, looking over his shoulder. He grips his father’s wrist, but the wrong one - the one holding him open, not the hand sliding the nub into his unwilling entrance.

“Come on, son. Relax.”

“What is that?”

“It’s nothing.”

“I don’t like it.”

“It’s a little present. You want Daddy to show you? See? See how tiny that is and the pointy end. Won’t even hurt. Just let it in, okay?”

Dean holds his breath and clenches harder.

John scolds, “Dean.” 

“Daddy, please don’t put that in me.”

John smacks his ass once, more to startle than sting. Another sharper slap on the other side. Dean gasps. 

“Do you like this?”

John spanks him again and again, alternating cheeks and steadily increasing the intensity until his palm buzzes.

Dean shakes his head but doesn’t make a sound. If he doesn’t like it, he can sure as hell take it. Dean’s fingers curl in the sheets. He buries his face in the pillow. Ass taut, driving his twigdick into the mattress.

John grits his teeth. Reminds himself: only pleasure, only tenderness.

“Fine,” he says. “No plug, no lunch.”

Dean’s face becomes a mask of agony. That’s torture enough for a child who lives to eat. 

“Or, you can wear it for ten minutes and then I’ll make you a hot dog. With ketchup, mustard and mayo.”

Dean blinks. A tear slides down his cheek and leaves a small dark spot on the pillow. He lays with his cheek on his hand. The protests stop. Quick learner.

This time, John squirts goop directly onto his hole. The boy yelps at the cold but otherwise keeps quiet. He turns to face the wall.

“Look at me.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Dean complies. His lips are drawn tight. 

“Relax.”

John spreads his ankles, but that only hides the prize. The best position for complete access is on his knees: bony hips angled to the ceiling, Dean’s face and arms flat on the bed.

“What do you say if it hurts?”

Dean doesn’t respond and John chooses not to push the point. He’s too busy pushing in the plug.

There’s no tensing up in this position and John holds Dean’s hips from underneath, refusing to let him inch back down.

“Almost, almost.”

Dean whimpers.

“Here it comes.”

“Daddy, don’t.”

“Almost.”

Dean squeaks as his sweet, pink bud starts to gives way. John presses it home and kisses Dean’s ass before letting him slither down flat.

“See? Easy,” he says. “Does it hurt?”

Dean buries his face in the pillow like he’s trying to suffocate himself. 

“You’ll get used to it. Come on. Be tough for Daddy.”

John’s leaking now, his dick dark and heavy. He takes himself in hand along with some lube. Strokes slowly at first, palming open Dean’s cheek to admire his most recent success. That tiny thing in his ass is causing a fine sheen of sweat to break over Dean’s back. 

They’ve got a long way to go to work him up to Daddy’s eight-inch, wrist-thick saber. John has had complaints from women of all sizes. It’s another one of nature’s tricks. He’d have been just as happy to fill Dean with a micro-dick. That just ain’t the way it is. 

John thumbs the black pearl shining out of Dean’s center and jerks faster.

Dean turns to watch, face streaked with tears but void of expression, even when John hooks a thumb into the corner his mouth. His other glides over the head of his dick, adding a stream of pre-cum to the glistening mix. He pumps until he’s wound up tight, teetering at the edge. Doesn’t even try to stop it. Shuddering and groaning, he gushes all over Dean’s back. 

Creates a work of art: boy laid bare, splattered with his father’s seed. A miracle. Poetry. If only John had more cum to give.

He scoops some with his forefinger and offers it to his son. Dean’s lips pinch tight. He starts to turn away, but John traps him with a forearm on his ear. 

“Take it.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut as if his daddy would gouge them out and stuff the jizz into his skull that way.

“Dean, I want you to taste how daddy made you. This is the same stuff I gave your mother’s egg. Remember, we talked about that?”

One eye opens. Then the other, but not the mouth.

“Just try it.”

When his patience lapses, John pinches Dean’s nose. Surely, the boy can hold his breath longer than ten seconds, but panic grips him and he gulps for air. John slides in the finger. Once Dean swallows, he lets him go. 

John’s tasted his own cum. It ain’t great, but it ain’t worth crying over.

“That’s not so bad, is it?”

“I love you daddy,” Dean’s tears stream, his voice dripping with all the irony and resentment a six-year-old can muster. 

John has loved no one more. He stands, slaps his little ass and exhales loudly.

“Let’s get up and do something with this day, boy.”

The cum is drying on the crusty paste on Dean’s bites. To stop the itching, he’ll need a fresh coat. That’s just going to fire up John’s radioactive libido again. There are other things he’d like to do today besides nut all over his son.  
 


	12. Chapter 12

One-time.

John will use the plugs to open that little asshole up so Dean's Poppa can breed him. But only once. Then, he’ll stop and never touch the boy again: sworn on Duckett’s family bible. 

“Hey, boy,” John calls. “Gym time.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

Between the single beds, John drops into plank position and waits for Dean to roll down and onto his back. Twenty-five pushups and twenty-five squats with a fifty-pound boy as a backpack. Three cycles. Build up a good sweat. Get the pulse going, muscles burning. Better than a Gold’s membership. Almost good as boot camp.

John shifts his weight, pulls his squealing son up over his shoulder until he’s cradling Dean in his arms. He drops the kid on the mattress and tickles his ribs with a mercilessness he usually reserves for monsters. And Dean screeches like he’s half banshee. 

He squirms and fights and kicks and blocks until he’s nearly hyperventilating. For better access, John lays over the wildly flailing legs, pins Dean’s hands above his head, laughing as he teases - wiggly fingers over downy-soft pits and ribs and belly meat.

Dean’s cute as all hell and John is already hard again. He blows one final raspberry on warm skin and then claps his thigh.

“All right. Up. Now!”

Before that’s not an option anymore.

 

***

 

As John pushes off from the dock, Dean freezes. His startled eyes glow emerald in the late-day sun.  

“Daddy, where’s Sam?

“He’s sleep, buddy.” John tromps to the opposite side of the canoe and takes up the oars. “Plus, Sam wouldn’t like this. He doesn’t know how to swim, does he?”

“Why don’t you teach him?”

John taught Dean to swim Before. Back when infant Sam was Mary’s problem. When John could spend most of his free time with his car, his poker buddies, or his big boy. And although he can’t imagine another world with that kind of freedom, he says, “Maybe someday.”

After a long, thoughtful silence, Dean asks to row. 

He’s too small, but John hands over the oars, smiling at the strain on the boy’s delicate features. Dean splashes clumsily. Instead of rowing forward, they veer sharply starboard, but John lets the vessel run aground, concealing laughter behind his fist.

Dean peers up, eyes swamp-green and desperate.

John asks, “What happened?” 

“We’re stuck.” 

“Looks that way. You want some help?”

“Yes, sir.”

Papa to the rescue. John deftly maneuvers out of a tangle of roots and into the easy-rolling center of the Caloosahatchee Canal.

“Want to try again?”

Dean shakes his head, solemn and defeated by failure.

“Come on. Winchesters don’t quit. Just got to watch where you’re going.”

He presses the oars back into Dean’s sweaty palms. Whenever the canoe swerves off course, John rights it. 

“Good,” he says. “That’s much better.”

Dean pauses for a long rest and swipes an arm across his forehead. John takes over, grinning as Dean lets his fingers trail in the water. He leaves a pretty wake on the black surface and kicks up a stink like a busted sump-pump. 

John treats himself to a moment of Dean’s peace before he says, “Careful, boy. Don’t want to have to fight no bull shark for you.”

It’s mostly bullshit, but the boy yanks that hand out of the water lightning-quick. When he finds a good spot, John pulls in, quits rowing. He takes a few minutes to show Dean how to rig the bait, but he casts both rods himself. Then the waiting begins.

The best angler in the world can’t make an appointment with the fish. There isn’t much to do besides down a bottle of beer. He brought the whole six-pack of Coors out of the Rev’s fridge but swore to himself to drink only two.

Dean leans back, exposing that long, caramel neck. Golden skin soaking in the sunlight, the peppering of freckles dancing over his nose. A smile spread across his little face and the long lashes resting on his cheek.

The reverie is short-lived. A splash near the shore causes Dean to look up, saucer-eyed. “What was that?”

“Probably a frog.” 

“What if it was a bull shark? Or a crocodon? Or a alligator? Or a —”

“It would be a lot louder.”

“Daddy,” Dean mewls and hunches his shoulders. 

“You scared of a little lizard?”

“It’s not funny.”

“Dean, I ain’t going to let nothing get you. And you know that.”

Whether he knows it, Dean scans the area like a swamp turtle, his head shrinking lower into his threadbare t-shirt. His shoulders rise to his ears, lower lip trembling when the sun ducks behind a cloud. 

“Come here,” John says and pats his knee. 

Dean tromps across the canoe like it’s a racetrack. 

“Hey, hey! Take it easy. You want to wind up in the water?”

That slows him to a careful creep. He grips the sides of the boat and stumbles over the worm bucket into his father’s arms. Laughing, John catches him. Sets down his bottle. Are there gators out here? Absolutely. Bull sharks, too. Do these critters want any trouble? Usually not.

But Dean’s fear is creating possibilities, stirring a monster that’s sure to want Dean’s meat. John nuzzles his cheek and strokes his skinny arms. The chigger bites are already looking better. 

“You going be tall as daddy one day?”

Dean’s nod earns a smile. He squirms a little and gets a far off look.

“What’s the matter?”

His hand hovers over his hiney, but he doesn’t touch. Of course. The plug.

John ought to give him a rest. They’ve been non-stop frisky since last night. It must be a lot for a little brain to process. What is it going to take for John to stay focused on fishing?

Just a quick check.  
   
He taps Dean’s back. The boy leans his chin on his papa’s shoulder. John slips a hand down the back of the boy’s pants, prodding with his middle finger. Everything in perfect order.

“How does that feel?”

“Funny.”

“Good funny?” John asks. “You like it?”

“No.”

Ought to teach him to say ‘yes’ no matter what.

“Well, it’s good for you.”

One soft brow rises. John chuckles at his son’s wordless skepticism.

“We’ll take it out when we get back.” 

Dean nods. John could let him go now. Send him back to his seat. Wait for the fish to perk up. Instead, he raises his bottle to Dean’s mouth. The boy frowns, but John’s palm on his skull. Urges him to tilt back and take it. 

He sputters and coughs, face scrunched in revulsion. John laughs and guides Dean’s hand to his crotch. Shows his son how to add the right pressure when he rubs.

“See what you did? Woke it up.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You just got to help it sleep again.”

Dean draws in a long breath. 

“Don’t ever be sorry for making your daddy feel good.”

There’s a moment of hesitation before Dean nods.

“You know I love you, don’t you?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“That’s all that matters,” John says, then demands that Dean repeat. 

“All that matters.” 

John leans back and loosens his fly. He hasn’t worn sweat pants since basic training, but it might be worth the investment for easier access. The boat rocks when he lifts to inch down his jeans and shorts. His dick springs to attention.

“You know, someday, Daddy’s going to be inside you.”

Again, Dean’s expressive face betrays his silence. The confusion is clear in his eyes even before he asks, “Like when Sam was a baby?”

“No. Not all of me. Just this part.” John guides the little fingers to the head of his cock. “Just my love.”

The confusion becomes a curled lip, disgust perhaps. Or uncertainty.

“In your mouth. In your bottom. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Dean purses his pink lips.

“It’s going to be nice. It’s going to be so good,” John says. “Tell me you want it.”

Now, those lips disappear between Dean’s teeth.

John grips his arm. “Tell me you want me, Dean. Say, Daddy, I want you inside me.”

He squeezes that bit of meat and bone until Dean is wincing, whimpering and finally lets out the words, just as pretty as verse.

“I want you inside me, Daddy.”

“Of course you do, baby.”

John holds him close, one hand on Dean’s lower back and the other down the back of his pants. He gently rocks their boat as he sings, 

All of my love.   
All of my love  
All of my love  
To you, babe

“Say it again, Dean.”

“Daddy.”

“Say it.” John presses the plug as if he’s spurring the words from Dean’s reluctant mouth.

“Iwantyouinsideme.”

“That’s right. Because you’re Daddy’s good boy. Get on your knees, baby.”

The bottom of the canoe is covered in sludge, but it ain’t going to kill the kid to get a little dirty. John leans back and grips the bench. “I need your help, Dean. What are you going to do for me?”

Dean bites his lip, staring at the sizable task. He breathes in deep and slowly raises one finger to stroke the head, avoiding the weepy eye. John twitches his dick and Dean shrinks away.

“Just playing with you.” John puts Dean’s hand where he wants it, around the base. 

His fingers don’t close all the way around, but it’s damn good: cool and soft.

“Your daddy is a two-handed job, baby.” 

Dean swallows and adds his other palm, making slow, uneven strokes like he’s learning to churn butter.

“That’s it.”

Hot blood pools under those tiny digits and John’s balls draw tight. He leans back again, breathing through his mouth while Dean learns his job.

“Good. Up, all the way to the top.”

In no time, John is almost there. The boy has no skill, no finesse, but he’s so goddamn beautiful. 

“Your mouth, baby,” John huffs the words, hips rising slightly into the touch. “Give me your mouth, Dean.”

Baby boy looks confused, but John can explain later. He pulls Dean’s face closer with one hand, uses the other to paint his mouth with pre-come. Dean tries to pull back, leaving them connected by a shiny strand. He struggles, but John holds his head in place.

“Don’t let go.”

Dean puts back his hands.

“Now, open your mouth,” John hisses. “Open, or I’ll make you.”

He pops his tip between those parting lips, jerks a few times and shoots his boy’s mouth full of seed. Dean gags and sputters. Lets cum ooze down his chin and his shirt, a magnificent mess. John shudders as another rope lands across Dean’s nose. Then he lets go, awed by the blend of slick and tears.

“Oh, God.”

John pants and grimaces. It’s too much beauty all at once. His breath hitches and palms Dean’s face clean before he kisses him, just once, sweetly.

“Thank you, baby.”

Dean’s face remains coiled tight. Even his revulsion is inexplicably beautiful.

He’ll grow out of it. Going down on his daddy is like firing a gun: Dean’s got to learn not to fear it before he can love it. Before John knows it, his boy will swallow every drop. Then, he’ll be begging for it.

But not today. Today, John savors the bewildered sparkle in his son’s eyes, the shine on his chin, the filth on his clothes. John holds his little body close again and whispers, “I love you.”

Dean doesn’t say a word. 

To top it all off, they haul in two good-sized redfish, more than enough for supper. Back on the shore, John shows Dean how to skin and gut the larger one. The boy completely botches the job on the second, slicing through the gill. 

“What the hell are you doing?” John snatches the knife. 

Dean flinches. John’s a quick learner, too. He pats his son’s back, dials back his anger.

“It’s all right,” he says. “You’ll get it. Just takes a little practice. Right? Like everything else.”

John guides Dean’s hand on the hilt. Together, they glide along the fish’s spine and spill the bloody entrails into the sand.

“Don’t want to eat that, now do we?”

“No, sir.” 

“One man’s garbage is another’s treasure,” John says as he lifts the fishies under the mouth. “Fox or raccoon would call that a damn fine meal, wouldn’t they?” 

He hands Dean the pail and pats his shoulder before picking up the rods and leading him back to the cabin. As they walk, John whistles Andy Griffith’s theme song.


	13. Chapter 13

Midday sun high behind John’s shoulder casting his long shadow over Dean as they walk.  
The cabin comes in sight; the pail clanks out of the boy’s hand. Dean runs ahead, scurries up the crooked cabin steps, letting the screen door slam in his father’s face.

“God damn it, boy.”

John delivers the fish to the kitchen. As expected, he finds Dean at Sam’s cotside, with his hand on his little brother’s forehead. He looks up, little face shining with sweat and a light sunburn and wilted with concern.

“Feel him, Daddy. Is he hot?”

“He’s fine, Dean.” John only touches Sam’s clammy face to relieve Dean’s worry. “See?”

“Why won’t he wake up?”

“He’s growing.”  
   
“What if he’s sick, Daddy?”

“He’s not sick, Dean. Growing boys have to sleep a lot.”

“But Daddy—”

“What do you think, lunch first or shower?” It’s an attention-grabbing device, not a real question. 

“But Sam —”

“If you’re not going to vote,” John says. “Then I say shower.”

“No! Lunch!”

“Look at your knees. Look how dirty you got out there.” Kneeling in the boat.

“Lunch!”

“And you’re still covered in that flour paste.”

“Lunch! Lunch! Lunch!” Dean tugs on John’s hands, hops up and down, shouting.

Sam doesn’t even stir. John might worry about the one son if he weren’t so in love with the other. 

He lifts Dean around the middle and carries him to the kitchen, lets him stand in a chair to watch the filleting, and dip the fish in the flour. The boy flinches as the meat sizzles in Crisco, then straightens up to watch with fascinated eyes despite his father’s warnings that the oil might pop.

On command, Dean sets the table. But when it comes time to eat, John’s champ leaves half his fish on the plate, along with a heaping helping of green beans.

“You full already?”

“It’s for Sammy.”

“I’ll make Sam a sandwich,” John points. “Finish your food.” 

Dean nods and yawns. He rests his cheek on his fist while he chews. 

“All right, sleepyhead. Shower time.”

Dean sits upright and frowns. John feeds him the last two bites and carries the boy over his shoulder. 

“Can I have a bath?”

“You can have a shower.”

John sets him on his feet in the bathroom and tells him to undress. Even with his back turned to get a fresh towel, John’s body is doing the Pavlovian trick of warming at bath time. After last night, Dean needs a nap. John’s wearing him out and frankly, his dick is chafed from all the jerking. If he’s not careful, he’ll take this too fast and do something he doesn’t intend. Worse still, if Dean ever asks him to stop, John’s not sure what he’ll do. Better to take it easy.

The shower is not optional, though. The boy is a filthy mess - all of it John’s doing. He turns to find Dean staring at the toilet with a longing gaze.

“You need to go?”

Dean nods.

“Then, go. You don’t need my— oh.”

John directs the boy to touch his toes. When he removes the plug, Dean’s little hole gapes for a moment before it closes. John’s inside roil and snarl to pounce. It would be so much easier to fuck him and be done with it.  He could drape the boy over the sink, lift one leg and take.

Unable to resist, John slides in the tip of his pointer finger. Dean yelps and stands upright, so tight John’s nerves explode. 

“Daddy?”

“It’s okay.” With a gentle hand on Dean’s shoulder, he ushers his son to lean over the tub. 

A gentle press and the finger budges forward, dislodging a hard, dry lump of shit.

“Daddy!”

“Daddy’s right here, son.”

Right here, with a finger up Dean’s butt and a dick so hard he’s going to cream himself. Dean grips the shower curtain as John twists his finger, sliding it in and out.

“Jesus Christ.”

He could slip in a left finger, too and tear this boy into two halves like a fresh-peeled orange. And no one would know. John could do whatever his sick, depraved heart desires and who’s going to stop him? Sam?

John swells and yearns. He appeases his erection with one hand, jamming into his son and soaking in the high-pitched whimpers. 

“That’s it.”

Fucking take it. Fucking cry, you little whore.

He shoves in, up to the large knuckle. There’s no lasting, irrevocable damage. There’s only John’s tented and damp shorts as he pulls Dean’s hand back so he can feel. Doing so shifts Dean’s weight and he nearly falls forward. A hot surge of aggression forces John to grind the boy’s ear to the side of the tub.

“Put your fingers in.”

Dean’s tears drip down his nose into the tub. John kisses his shoulder, wraps a hand around his forehead and commands him again. 

“Feel it, Dean. This little hole right here. Daddy’s going to fill you up. You want that, don’t you?”

Dean sobs, but he doesn’t reply. Stubborn mule. Maybe John should stuff him full of cock right now and teach him to obey.

“Daddy, I have to go. Please.”

“Go where? You’re not going anywhere.” Ever. John will kill him before he lets this go.

“I need to poop.”

Those words have the desired effect. 

John releases Dean’s head, takes a step back and leaves the boy alone to do his business. He hovers outside of the bathroom door, inhaling the shit on his fingers while the beast within him prowls in wait for its prey. 

By the time the toilet flushes, John’s got himself somewhat under control. He makes the shower snappy, dries Dean, puts him in clean clothes and lets him walk to the bedroom. John may be incurably horny, but he’s wise enough to stay away from Christopher’s room. He leads Dean to the guest bedroom where his bed and the boys’ cots are situated. Dean tries to climb in with his brother.

“No no no,” John says. “Get in your own bed.”

“Why?”

It’s actually a good question. The boys have been sharing a bed since … Mary. The sight of Dean curled around Sam’s body like a shell unsettles John now. Maybe it’s a fear that Dean will practice some of their skills on the little one. All he needs is Dean French kissing his brother in public. 

“If Sam is sick, you’ll catch it.”

“No,” Dean says. “He’ll catch my healthy.”

It would be good for Sam to wake up now, so John can give Dean a rest. The way it stands his serpent is winning the battle against common sense. 

“Go to sleep.” He kneels beside the cot, humming Rockabye Baby into Dean’s ear. 

“That’s a baby song, Daddy,” Dean says with his eyes closed.

“Then, what do you want?”

“Not a baby song.”

The first tune that comes to him is an old favorite. The melody, the lyrics, the truth: 

Baby, when I think about you  
I think about love  
Darling, I don’t live without you  
And your love

John’s not a gifted singer. It’s more of a whisper than a tune. Dean rolls onto his side and opens his big, green eyes. 

And if I had those golden dreams of my yesterday  
I would wrap you in the heavens   
Feel it dying all the way

John kisses him because he has to. He’d swear on Dean’s life that the boy kisses him back. No tongue, but a give and take of his lips. If not passion, at least permission. It melts everything inside of John: his resistance, resolve. 

He sweeps Dean up from the cot and carries him to his own bed. Lowers him to the pillow with his hand beneath Dean’s damp hair. A kiss on the navel followed by a huge, sloppy raspberry. Dean giggles and rolls up like an armadillo, a posture that begs for tickle torture. 

When John pins his hands above his head Dean’s eyes grow round. His father’s fingers wriggle in mid-air and he squeals and writhes. They touchdown on his neck, his belly, dance across his riblets. The armpits are most sensitive, so John lightly pokes and draws a finger down the soft soft skin while Dean howls and pleads for mercy. 

John licks and blows cold air. Dean’s body goes rigid, as if in rigor mortis. Then, his spine rolls like the first wave in a newborn ocean. His hips tilt up for the ceiling. 

“More, Daddy.”

“You want more tickling?” Little masochist.

In Dean’s silence, John hears that’s not what he wants at all. Dean wants John to lick him again. And Daddy yields. 

He licks Dean’s downy armpit, his soft neck, along his collarbone and up the ridges of his ribs. John releases Dean’s hands, slides off the firetruck Underoos and dips his tongue into the warm navel. Dean giggles and yearns toward wherever John’s mouth travels.

For a moment, Poppa hovers over his son’s perfectly erect, wonderfully tiny boyhood. When Dean’s little hand lands on John’s ear, like a shouted consent.

Dean’s wood sprouts up and to the left, like his old man. John holds it down with his thumb and lets the bugger springs back up. They both titter and John does it again. He kisses the flat expanse of skin where Dean will one day grow a treasure trail. His entire body is smooth and hairless and salted with freckles. Peppered with daddy kisses. 

John sticks out his tongue, tickles the tip of Dean’s toy prick. The boy draws in a breath, fingers tangling in John’s hair. He more than wants this. His body is begging for it. 

John sits on the edge of the bed and pats his thighs. Dean scurries along the mattress and straddles his lap. Mouth open to John’s kiss. Scrawny hips grinding. In a momentary fit of lust, John grabs a fistful of Dean’s hair and yanks back his head. He licks Dean’s throat and asks, “Are you daddy’s little slut?”

Caught in that grip, Dean tries to nod. There’s no way the child knows what that word means, but he’s eager and pressing close enough to crawl into John’s skin where he’s more than welcome.

“Stand up here, baby slut.”

Dean balances a foot on each thigh, holding his father’s shoulders to be safe. John bounces once to make his son giggle. Then he gazes up into those huge eyes and plants kisses all along Dean’s slender legs.

Dean’s boyhood is bite-sized treat fit for tray at some rich guy’s cocktail party. He tongues between the balls, each no bigger than a walnut. Presses the miniature cock to the roof of his mouth. Dean bucks and tries to thrust deeper. John swirls the tiny thing around in his mouth, grips Dean’s ass in both palms, pulls him wide and delves in a finger. The boy is already so tight again. Both hands clench John’s hair.

“Daddy?”

His voice couldn’t be sweeter if it were drenched in honey. John pulls off and lays Dean over his lap, handling the boy as if he weighed no more than a loaf of bread. Dean tenses, expecting a spanking.

John wets his middle finger in Dean’s warm mouth. Then he rubs circles around his hole. For a moment, the boy is reluctant, his spine board-straight. Bit by bit, he relaxes his arms and legs. Lets his body drape over his father’s knees. Allows John’s curious fingertip to breach him.

“Daddy.”

“It’s okay, baby. I got you.”

John aims his spit to ooze down Dean’s crack. His finger eases in and back out, one cautious centimeter at a time.

“You’re doing so good, baby.”

Dean whines. Coated in sweat. Another wasted shower.

“Does it hurt?”

“Mmmm.”

“You gonna be brave for Daddy?”

Dean hugs his leg.

John hooks his finger, seeks and is rewarded when Dean moans so loud it reverberates through John’s bones like he’s a tuning fork.

“Daddy.”

Dean pants and squirms as John’s finger slips in and out more easily each time. But the angle is no good. In frustration, he tosses the boy onto his belly.

He swiftly kicks out of his clothes and sits with his feet up toward the pillows. He yanks Dean onto his hands and knees facing the headboard so John can pull him wide open, exposing all that sweet, pink flesh between his cheeks. His tongue urges into that ultra-tight hole. He wets the same finger again and this time it enters almost without resistance, forcing a loud breath between Dean’s lips. 

“Look at this wet, little pussy.  Do you know how bad I want inside of you right now? You know that?”

Dean peers over his shoulder and pushes back, ever so slightly, taking more of John’s finger.

“Oh, you sweet little slut.”

“Daddy, what’s a slut?”

“It’s a ... someone who likes this kind of love. You like this don’t you, Dean?”

He nods.

“I know you do, slutty boy.”

Dean bites his lip and John jerks himself hard and fast while Dean fucks back on that middle right finger. Wrist cramp be damned.

“Goddam you’re so dirty, baby. That’s it. Bounce on Daddy’s finger, boy. Fuck.”

Dean doesn’t shoot or even squirt, but his tremors shake the bed and it’s hard to tell whether he’s sobbing or singing, “Oh, Daddy.”

A sweet sound that rocks John’s core and sets off the bottle rocket that shoots all over his baby’s behind.


	14. Chapter 14

Maybe John shouldn’t talk like Dean is a 20 dollar whore. He’s a six-year-old angel, not a slut. 

Then again, a long list of shouldn’ts has already gone up in flames. John won’t talk that way again. He does, however, grease and slide in the next size of butt plug into his boy while he’s napping.

Dean awakens and (surprise, surprise) he wiggles away from John’s arms to check on Sam. More surprising is the fact that Sam hasn’t even rolled over. It’s worth checking that his pulse and breathing are still strong. The kid is knocked out. The Reverend had some high-quality shit.

Unless this is more than a long, deep sleep. It’s been nearly five hours. The last thing John needs is to lug around a comatose baby. He could always bundle Sam up and leave him somewhere, but there’s no mercy in that. 

John sends Dean to pee and adds every pillow he can find to the cot, piling a few beside Sam’s face. If he rolls into them and suffocates, well, it’s not like John actively smothered him. When Dean returns, John explains that the cushions are a fortress to protect his brother while they go out. Dean’s face contorts as his doubt and excitement battle. 

John empties the last tumbler of the Reverend’s whiskey while he watches Dean dress. Doesn’t even cast another glance at Sam. 

As they drive up the road, Dean glances over his shoulder. Despite John’s constant assurances, he looks back long after the cabin is gone from view.

“What kind of ice cream you want?”

Dean doesn’t appear to hear the first time, so John pats his knee and repeats the question.

“Um... chocolate, please.”

“Chocolate’s good. What else?”

Dean looks up at him. He’s never had double scoops in his brief life. This here is a new day. John’s hunt for Reverend Duckett’s stash of cash has finally yielded fruit. Behind the tapes, he’d uncovered a pouch containing over $6000. There were also paper bonds worth 50K, but those are useless to both him and the dead man.

No matter. They’re on Easy Street now. Hell yeah, Baby Boy can have two scoops. And sprinkles too.

John has a couple of errands to run in town - including to replenish his beer and spirits - but more than anything, he needs to be around folks so he can give Dean a rest. The boy shifts in his seat.

“You all right?”

Dean nods and wiggles his ass some more. “It’s a little…”

“You’ll be fine. Just ignore it.”

John turns up his palm. Dean drops his hand into it and John’s threads their fingers together, kisses his son’s knuckles.

“Love you.”

“I love you too, Daddy.”

John’s heart warm and open like it’s never been broken. 

“What music you want?”

“Mmmm. Zepplin?”

“Always a good choice. Which song?”

Dean pauses to think before he requests, “Highway to Hell.”

“Not Zeppelin, but I can make that happen for you.”

Once the song is blasting through the speakers, John pulls Dean’s hand onto his swollen crotch. He can’t provide much relief from this angle but the tiny pale hand against the dark denim is so fucking hot.

John parks on Dugan street and can’t stop looking at that plush, red mouth. He turns away from the temptation and watches people pass his window. A woman pushing a stroller. A man on a cell phone gesturing like the person he’s talking to can see him. None of them gives a damn what’s happening in this car. He could make Dean suck him right here. They’d never know. 

Once his hard-on subsides, John still can’t stop looking at this beautiful, fragile, freckle-covered gem. Dean scrunches his face like he’s trying to read his father’s thoughts, all of which are of ravaging his son. All the time. Maybe Dean is thinking the same. Remembering how John sucked him or how he came apart on John’s finger. They could turn around and drive right back to the cabin.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, baby.”

 “You think they have Very Berry?”

Can Dean possibly recall his mother’s favorite? John didn’t think he remembered her at all. Rarely calls out or cries in the night anymore. When all that sniveling stopped, John began to see his son in a different light. He needs to get himself together. They’re not in the cabin. They’re out and about. 

“If they don’t have Very Berry,” he says. “They don’t deserve to call themselves an ice cream shop.”

It’s not ice cream at all, but frozen custard. Dean slurps like it’s his last meal. He doesn’t finish his treat, but it’s sure fun watching him try. 

Public is good. As crazy in love as John is, he’s not crazy enough to lick the chocolate residue from Dean’s mouth and chin. Oh, he wants to. He thinks about it. He licks his own mouth, gnaws a hole in his lip, but he sates himself by wiping Dean clean with a napkin and kissing his hair. 

John hoists the prettiest boy in the world onto his shoulders. This stroll through town is the closest he can come to tying cans to the back of his car and painting his devotion on the rear window of his car.

The striking pair win their share of smiles and Hellos. Dean chirps back to everyone who greets them, spreading his flirty smile like a bee. John holds tight to his ankles and revels in his good fortune. 

Dean hops a little. “Daddy, look.”

John has repeatedly denied him access to that playground. Their prior trips into town have been strictly grocery runs with Dean plastered to the windows. Today, King John is feeling magnanimous, walks over and lets Dean run off on the mulch. He’d much rather avoid the park and the inevitable conversations with other parents about his son’s age and name and where he goes to school. 

John’s boys. John’s business.

As always, there are a couple of real cute boys on the jungle gym. John’s only human. He looks, but he has his own. He’s not greedy like the Reverend. 

“Daddy, can you be the monster?”

John grins. Amazing that Dean recalls that game.

“Sure, honey.”

It’s modified hide and seek. John, the monster, counts to 20. When he turns around, he’s going to be looking for boy-flesh to devour. Sometimes Dean would pretend to be a billy goat gruff and John would be the troll. Today, he’s just a monster. 

The other kids don’t smell like children at all. They stink of bug spray or sunblock or whatever goop their worried mothers have slathered on them today. If he were a real creature, the only one he’d eat is Dean.

John counts, turns and growls. A little girl at the top of the slide jumps and squeals on her way to her mother. The rest of the kids know a good thing when it’s happening. 

“Can I play?”

Before long, Dean’s team is five strong. John grunts and scrapes at clambering feet. He chases them up ladders and pretends to almost catch. The rules dictate that the monster can’t breathe out of mulch. Monsters on the ground, kids up high. 

Mothers smile from the periphery. An older man, somebody’s grandpa, steps up to join the pursuit. When they’ve got the little ones cornered in the middle of a shaky bridge, Dean’s face changes. John sees the moment his expression goes from bright and delighted to dark determination.

Dean calls the kids into a huddle. Within a moment, three of them break away and hop down onto the ground. They scatter in all directions, but it’s a dangerous play. The grandpa grunts and goes after one. John lumbers after another, slow and clumsy like a movie zombie. 

His back is turned, so he doesn’t see it happen. The screaming makes him look back. It’s safe to assume that Dean took a running jump from the top of the playhouse and dove onto the old man’s back. By the time Dean pulls him off, his son has scraped the poor guy’s face to shreds. 

Dean goes on fighting until John locks his arms around him like a straitjacket, whispering, “It’s okay. Dean. We’re all just playing, son.”

Nobody else is playing by this point. They’re all leading their kids away. John apologizes, but secretly shines with pride. No one had better ever fuck with his kid.

 

***

 

When was the last time John splurged on toys? Dean’s fourth birthday, maybe. His bag is too cumbersome to carry all by himself. He’s got some kind of robot, a Lego motorcycle set and a Slinky. He’s also got a set of finger-paints he insisted on bringing for his brother. 

The saleswoman falsely assumed it was Dean’s birthday and tried to upsell a cowboy holster and gun. No point wasting money on toy weapons. John did, however, indulge the Knight Rider poster even though he’s pretty sure Hasselhoff is a fag.

Dean never wanted to leave the toy store. They’ve only been in Borders five minutes when he tugs his father’s pants and whines.

“Knock it off.”

The third time he does it, John sends his son to the kid’s section. Amid the books and toys and brightly colored pictures of animals, a girl slightly younger than Dean reads aloud from One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. Dean stands, transfixed as if she’s performing a magic spell. 

John picks up another one from the same section, something about Frog and Toad. “Son, what does this say?”

Dean grass-green eyes remain blank.

“We’ll work on it.”

John turns his nose up at the brainiac nerd and tells Dean to hang out here. He’s bound to learn something by osmosis.

The journals are near enough to monitor him. John is considering a plain black Moleskine when Dean approaches holding the hand of a wide-hipped blonde in white medical scrubs.

“This is your father?” The woman’s voice is neutral, but John is familiar with that look.

Dean says, “Tell him.”

“Well,” the woman shrugs. “If a two-year-old hasn’t gotten out of bed all day, that probably isn’t a good sign. But I’m sure your dad already knows that.”

“See?” Dean throws up his hands. “You need to fix Sam.”

John applies enough pressure to the boy’s shoulder bicep to shut him up, but not enough to make him howl.

The woman’s brown eyes narrow. “Is this some kind of —”

“No.”

She’s easy to look at. Her perfume is subtle. She’s got some of Mary’s grit. That’s probably what Drew dean to her. Or else it was the scrubs. The kid can’t read, but he’s no idiot.

“Listen, cutie, if your daddy wants to talk to me, he should do it himself.” 

“No. My brother. He needs help.” 

“Dean,” John snaps.

The woman asks, “Where is your brother?” 

“At the cabin.”

“That’s enough, son.”

“Your wingman is certainly persistent.” 

“I promise you, he acts on his own,” John says between gritted teeth. “Usually a good boy but—”

“Daddy!”

Dean has his daddy’s attention and his wrath, but John has to diffuse this situation first.

“You know kids,” he says and unleashes the crooked smile.

The girl probably doesn’t even know she’s batting her lashes. 

“So, Sam is real?” she asks.

“Very real.”

“I thought he might be an imaginary friend.”

John laughs, secretly wishing he’d thought of that. “Just got a little cold.”

“A cold?” Dean shouts.

“At home with his mother, I take it?”

John chuckles on the inside. She’s not beating around the bush, this one. He puts on a sorrowed face. 

“No,” he says. “Their mother passed away a couple of years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

I just bet, flirty cunt. 

John licks his lips like an anglerfish flashes its light. “It hasn’t been easy. Dean’s been hit the hardest. Little things upset him so easily.”

“The poor thing. I’m sure that’s difficult for you all.” This woman makes fearless eye contact.

A worthy opponent. Nurses are usually hearty and strong. Probably not half bad in bed. A week ago, John would have settled this in the back of the Impala. No need now. Get rid of her, preferably in a friendly way.

“Hello!” Dean waves his arms. “What about Sam? Would you please come listen to his heart or something? Make sure he’s still alive.”

“You are the cutest thing.” She kneels to Dean’s eye level. “If you’re this worried about Sam, maybe I should come look.”

John’s insides coil. His fingers tighten around Dean’s shoulders.

“That’s... Wow,” he stutters. “That’s generous of you.”

“Well, I’m technically off the clock, but I don’t mind making a house call from time to time.”

“You are … Aren’t you something?”

Vivica offers her name and her hand. “My patients call me Doctor Burris.”

“Wow. A doctor?”

Dean grins, pleased with his find.

“I mean, you hardly look old enough,” John cleans up his surprise with a touch of flattery.

But it’s also true. She’s in her mid-twenties (a decade younger than he is). Small breasts, round ass, corn-colored hair tied up with a pair of chopsticks. Any man with typical tastes would salivate at this offer. So, John plays the part, pretends to check her out.

“Well, technically, I’m still a resident, but…”

“That’s... wow.”

He never had any use for smart girls. Not that Mary was a bimbo. She served her purpose, but this woman is an unnecessary risk. Doctors, even just residents, detail-oriented. 

Tossing Dean over his shoulder and bolting through the nearest exit would be too conspicuous. The only way out is through.

“Well, Dr. Burris, I hardly think it’s worth your time coming to check on a child with a cold.”

“I’ll decide what’s worth my time.” Her smile is virtually a promise. “And if I can help make Sam more comfortable, it would be my pleasure. Maybe both of our pleasure.”

John chuckles and runs a hand through his hair. 

“Sam certainly is lucky to have such a dear concerned big brother.”

Dean takes her hand. “Our cabin is right on Lake Hicpochee. You know where that is?”

“Dean!”

The boy looks up and so does Vivica, both stunned by John’s tone.

Until this point, John had planned to ditch the woman between here and their car.

“It’s really okay…” she says, leaving space open for a name.

Dean fills it. “John. His name is John Winchester. Can we go now?”

 

***

 

In the car, the little imp folds his arms and says, “That doctor lady wants to kiss you.”

“And your father want to strangle you.”

“Why?”

John mimics Dean’s incredulous expression. 

“You think I want some stranger knowing where we camp?”

“She’s not a stranger. She’s a doctor.” 

“Dean, you... just be quiet, okay? I’m very upset with you.”

“With me? Sam is dying and all you want to do is …”

“Right now, I want you to shut up while I figure out how to handle this.”

John could out-drive her, but she’s got the license plate, their descriptions. Thanks to Dean, she’s got John’s fucking real name. He bangs the steering wheel. 

“Don’t you care what happens to Sam?” Dean asks tentative like he almost doesn’t want the answer.

John sighs and tries to appear hurt by the accusation. The truth is, all he really cares about is the possibility of losing Dean. 


	15. Chapter 15

Parents have favorites.

John was not his father’s best-loved child. It’s no tragedy. What's odd is the aggressive distaste he feels for his younger son. Perhaps, it's because John begged, pleaded, and forbade Mary not to have another.Sam is the proof of how little control John had over his wife. Over his own life.

Time again, he finds himself wedged into circumstances of other people’s choosing.Sam is the very embodiment of that powerlessness. A reminder that he's not his own man. Not really.

John steps out and shuts the car door, squinting. That could be a fox calling in woods.

“Sam!” Dean shouts and takes off running.

On second listen, there’s no mistaking the sound of a shrieking toddler. Vivica frowns as she approaches. “Is that—”

“God damn it, Duckett,” John says, covering all the angles of his ass. “That old man…”

More information, or a long concocted story would be more suspicious. He gives her enough to assure that he hadn’t left a two year-old at home alone. Then John runs toward Sam, too, because that looks right.

The woman is behind him, cracking twigs and crunching leaves, calling for John to wait. She’s uneasy in the woods. This would be there perfect moment to circle back around her, come up from behind and finish this business that way. Then, he’d have to deal with the car, but that’s an easy fix.

As he’s running and calculating, his foot falls in something squishy: a pungent, overloaded diaper, abandoned in the woods.

“God dammit.”

A few feet ahead, he finds a trail of vomit that will, no doubt, lead him straight to Sam. It’s decision time about the woman. She’s not far behind.

Just ahead there’s Dean, stumbling, struggling to carry Sam who is wearing only a t-shirt.

“Goodness, look at them.”

Dr. Burris was closer than John thought and the last thing he’s going to do is hurt Dean’s doctor while he watches. John bounds over, swoops Sam out of Dean’s arms and mumbles, “Good job, son.”

Sam looks bad. To John’s credit, his younger son hadn’t been this pale and clammy when they left him. Smells awful, too.

“I swear, I’m going to kill Duckett,” John says for the woman’s benefit.

Dean’s eyes go wide, but he’s too smart to say, ‘no, daddy. I already did that.’ Thank God for small favors.

“Is he —”

“He’s breathing,” John says, keeping his features and voice stoic.

The doctor knots her brow at the saltline over the threshold. John sees her expression, but doesn’t try to explain to a scientist civilian. Before the Reverend died, John never felt a need to ward the cabin against dark forces. Now, he’s using every trick in his book to keep evil at bay.

Thankfully, Burris’ attention is on Sam. With Dean overseeing, John quickly bathes and lays the boy in Dean’s cot. Sam’s is filthy with yet more vomit. (How much can such a small person hurl?) John takes the soiled cot onto the porch to air out and cleans the trail of mess from the bedroom down the front steps.

Finally, he stands at the bedroom door where Dean constantly inquiring what the doctor is doing.

No matter how good this little girl is, she’ll never accurately diagnose Sam without a blood and urine tests. It’s almost amusing to sit back and let her try.

“John,” she says, brow furrowed. “Can you get Dean out of here?”

“Come on, son.”

“No. I’m staying with Sam.”

“You were right,” Doctor Burris assures him. “Sam is really sick, honey. This isn’t any place for you to—”

“He needs me.”

“Dean.” John carries his shouting, fighting son into the kitchen.

“Daddy, please.”

John leans close to Dean’s face, smooths back his hair and whispers, “This was your stupid idea. She’s going to check your brother. She’s going to leave, and then I’ll think about what to do with you. Now, go outside and play before you make me even madder.”

 

***

 

That woman is awful. Doesn’t matter if she smells like cookies, and she’s pretty like maybe Mommy was. She’s a stupid, mean lady with a big butt and she should leave.

He throws a pebble at her car and then glances over his shoulder to be sure nobody saw. Of course, they didn’t see. They’re inside, keeping him away from Sam. Dean is all alone out here, and if he had Reverend Duckett’s knife he’d stick it in her tires.

That’s a bad thought.  
_Dean Winchester, that is a bad, ugly, awful thought and you say sorry right now._  
His mommy’s not here to make him say sorry. Nobody is.

Dean’s heart skips: a little fear, and excitement.

He’s heard enough of his daddy’s stories to know that he’s never really alone. Any creepy thing could be watching. Something with sharp claws and teeth, but not a bear. Or something invisible that wants to drag him down into a hole.

Dean also knows how to protect himself, how to take care of Sammy, even when his daddy’s not around. He picks up the nearest stick. It’s a good one, too. Big, thick and sharp on the end. It’s a stabbing stick. He could use this stick poke the doctor lady’s eyeballs out.

That’s another bad thought.  
But it feels good.  
Dean hates her and he wants to stab her eyeballs out with a stick.

Since she’s inside the house, Dean settles for poking the moss, digging it up, making it dead. The moss is not just her. His daddy, too.

That’s an even worse thought. Boys can’t kill their daddies. Then what would happen? But Dean’s daddy is awful. He’s mean to Sam and strange, terrible and wonderful to Dean.

Screaming, Dean uses both hands to drive his stick down down down through the moss and the dirt to kill it all. If he could, he would kill everything. Wielding his stick as a sickle, he mowed down shrubbery with a whoosh and rebellious yell.

An orange salamander with blue spots crosses his path. It slips under a rock. The boy skulks after it, rolling the stone aside, scraping back leaves and sludge. He’s in full hunter mode when his father rings the dinner bell.

It must be his father. It certainly isn’t the Reverend. That old man is dead. Dean knows it, because he saw the big, old eyes bugging out and the blood gushing and the horrible half-fingers trying to claw the knife from his neck.

Behind Dean, something slinks hungrily and he turns quickly, clutching his stick, showing himself and the world he’s ready.  
The setting sun marks up the sky like nasty purple bruise. The night music has already started with its chirps and peeps. All around him, the swamp swells with boy-eating plants yearning to squeeze the life from him and drag him into the dirt. Vengeance for Dean’s fern-murdering spree that has carried him farther from the front door than he’s ever been or is allowed to go.

This swampy forest is a dying place. Even though Rev. Duckett taught Dean to call the cypress and the fetterbush by name, the roots still grab at his ankles when he runs, feet flying toward the saving sound of the dinner bell. Arrives at the cabin bathed in sweat, his shirt sticking damply to his back.

His father and the doctor stand together on the back porch and Dean’s original hate floods over him in a wave.

The only good way for a child to punish their adults is with silence or tears. Dean refuses to cry. So his only alternative is to starve his father of his voice and the pleasure of watching Dean eat.  
Of course, Dean suffers, too, but it’s worth it. Daddy can try it with the bath, but Dean will kick and scream and splash water all over him.

“Fine. You want to be a brat, then go to bed.”

Dean folds his arms and pouts, but all he wanted was to be banished to the room where Sam is.

The doctor lady says something about Sam’s rest and Dean’s mean Daddy carries him into the Reverend’s stale pee-smelling room.  
Sitting on that big high bed, staring at the huge, heavy cross on the wall is scarier than anything in the woods. Daddy is the one who told Dean about the dead who don’t die, but lurk in the floorboards, waiting for the little boy who killed them to be left alone in the dark.

“I’m through with you tonight,” Daddy says. “Go to sleep.”

He hates Dean right back.

Sleep is a sneaky enemy. It takes Dean and then retreats again when strange animals make noises in the night. He sits up in bed, searching the dark room for signs of the Reverend’s ghost. There are no good weapons in here, so he darts into the hall.

Sam is the only good person, but he’s sleeping again. Why doesn’t he stop sleeping? And what was the point of the doctor if she can’t keep him awake?

Dean shakes him, but nothing changes except there’s that noise again. Not an animal. Kind of a cry, like someone hurt.

Daddy’s pistol is under his pillow, like always. People are always scared of guns, but he’s not so sure about ghosts. It’s a two-hand job, but Dean can make it shoot if he has to. He creeps up the dark hallway, weapon ready.

“Jesus.” Dean can tell by the doctor lady’s voice that she’s in trouble. “You’re not even human, are you?”

Whatever’s got her isn’t human. Dean should run the other way, stay close to Sam. But as useless and mean as the doctor-lady is, he doesn’t want her dead. If he saves her life, maybe she’ll go away and leave his family alone.

But she’s the opposite of away: she’s naked, sitting on his Daddy’s lap. The room stinks like swamp water. It might look like wrestling, but Dean knows better. How on earth is this helping Sam? Dean drops the gun to his side. It was too heavy anyway.

“How many sluts do you have, Daddy?”

“Dean,” his daddy barks. “Go to bed. Now!”

But Dean doesn’t leave, because why should he? This is his cabin, too. This lady is supposed to be fixing his brother, not sitting on his daddy’s weiner, chuckling. What is so funny? It’s horrible when grownups laugh and they don’t tell you what’s so funny.

“Wow. Yeah, John,” she says, like Dean is the silliest thing on TV. “How many do you—”

“You said I was your slut.”


	16. Chapter 16

John tried a dozen ways to make the female leave.

He thanked her, offered to pay for the medical help. After Dean was in bed, John yawned and said it was late. Her response was to hang herself like a noose around his neck cooing about intimacy after the death of a spouse, as if she knew anything about Mary, or John, for that matter.

Just like everyone else, she made assumptions.

There’s no one but God to blame for John’s perfect camouflage. People expect men like him to be meek, pencil-necked dweebs. They see the confident, smiling eyes of a 6’2” former marine runningback and overlook darker truths. In fact, they can’t see John at all. Nature has hidden his predatory soul too well.

He even claimed he might have contracted an STD. Dr. Burris offered a thorough examination and gave the patient a clean bill of health. She’d brought her own condoms, just in case. John used one from his own stash, because one size does not fit all. He returned from retrieiving the rubber to find the woman undressed and sprawled across the sofa.

That was the last chance to turn cruel and kick her out, but John had seen Hell’s fury in Mary’s eyes. Once a strong woman knows what she wants, it’s easiest to give it to her. As a public service, he’d provide the doctor a firm dicking and let her go.

Sure, Vivica would know about the cabin, but what threat did she pose? She might even agree to watch Sam on occasion if John fucked her and took her to a movie every now and then.

As females go, John always preferred a tomboy: flat chest, thin hips, strong limbs. Short hair or a raspy voice was a plus.

He’d struck fool’s gold with little Mary Campbell. She turned out to be a late bloomer. The day John march her down the aisle, she began trading her cutoff shorts for sundresses. No amount of begging could reverse the sudden interest in makeup or worse, the curves that ruined her figure after Dean was born.

Vivica could sure handle her liquor. John gave her that out loud. Third Vodka and Coke in and she was still going strong.

And she has a wisp of Mary’s early allure, but no one would mistake her for a boy from any angle. All her masculinity was in her brain and most of her youthfulness had been whittled away by med school.

“You talk to anybody before you came down here?” he asked, perched on the edge of the couch to pull off his boot.

“Just my sister,” she said. “Always telling me to take chances and get laid more. So, here I am.”

“Here you are,” John said, instantly sorry for the flirtatious tone. “And we are incredibly grateful. Dean especially.”

“He’s an adorable kid. I’ve worked in pediatrics. The level of compassion for his little brother is pretty extraorindary for a child Dean’s age. That’s a sign of caring parenting.”

“Did you tell your sister where you are?”

“Honestly, I don’t even know where I am.” Vivica laughed and reached for John’s belt. “Dean said the lake is around here somewhere.”

“Quarter mile march, that way.” John nodded eastward. “Listen, Vivica. I didn’t invite you out here to —”

“How on earth are you so hot?”

That was it. John quit resisting and let her steer. She’d get what she wanted and leave him alone. Fair trade.

He should have locked Dean’s door, barricaded it. Now, he’s got a confused child with a Ruger SR22 in his hand and a horrified woman rushing into her clothes.

It was all still salvageable right up until it wasn’t.

Watch the movies. People love when children and old ladies use profanity. It’s a barrel of monkeys until a six year old calls himself a slut. Then noone’s laughing.

John can wring Dean’s neck later. Damage control is more urgent right now. He sits up and laughs. “The boy doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“Dean.” Vivica pulls him close with one hand, steps into her pants with the other.

John stands and wrenches the gun from his son’s hand. “What are you doing with this?”

Vivica springs in front of the boy, as if John would ever hurt him. He’d sooner die. He tosses the gun on the sofa and holds up his hands to show he’s no threat to either of them.

Her gaze flicks right and John springs as she lunges for the weapon.

Struggling in his arms, Vivica screeches, “Did you say that to him?”

“Of course not.” John chuckles. “Come on. Why would I say that to him?”

Dean’s eyes are wide and confused. So are the doctor’s. She doesn’t know what to believe. John makes it simple.

He begins with his hands around her throat. She drops Dean’s wrist and, of course, she’s a fighter. Gargling for help, eyes bulging, dull nails clawing at his face. She reaches for her purse, where she probably has a mace or something. John lifts her to her toes and she kicks his shins. A single-engine plane passes over the cabin, noisy as always.

John closes his arms around her head. One swift, firm twist. Interrogation complete. Her body crumples to the floor like a sack of laundry.

“Look what you did,” John inhales loudly. “She could have been your new mama. We could have kept her around to help with Sam.”

It’s a nonsense fantasy John entertained for about three seconds. The woman cooking bacon. Him and Dean taking father/son camping trips on weekends. It was never going to happen, but the boy deserves the full blame on this one.

Meanwhile, the skirmish has actually made John’s dick harder. His preferred partner is standing right here, staring down at the half-dressed, completely dead woman. Dean’s mouth is wide but nothing’s coming out - not words, not air.

Shocked, like he’s never seen a dead body before. Like his dainty little hands didn’t kill someone less than 24 hours ago. Winchester men are racking them up.

“You know, I didn’t think your pussy was ready yet,” John pulls Dean’s chin, forces the boy to look up at him. “But you know what I’m thinking now? If you got the balls to come in here and pull a stunt like this? Maybe it is. Maybe you are ready.”

***

“Is that what you came in here to tell Daddy? You want this cock right now, don’t you?” Daddy grabs his wiener, pulls Dean close enough to strike his face with it. “You don’t want me fucking anyone but you. Is that it, Dean?”

Dean has no idea what his daddy is saying, so he doesn’t try to answer. He doesn’t struggle. He lets his father carry him down the hall and toss him on the bed in Christopher’s room. Daddy tugs Dean's undies to his knees.

When he's this mad, it’s best not to fight. Dean squeezes his eyes shut. Sometimes Daddy does hurty things, but sometimes he feels nice. Maybe whatever’s coming will feel really, really good.


	17. Chapter 17

John hovers at the foot of the bed, deciding. Conundrum of the all-you-can-eat buffet: where to begin.

He removes the plug with a squelchy sound. Dean touches his hole, gaping wide enough to sink in couple of his curious, little fingers. John could just watch him play with himself if he wasn’t already so damn hard.

“I have to go potty.”

It’s a stall tactic. John doesn’t even mind. He needs a moment, too, to compose himself and make sure he does this right.

“Run, and come right back,” he says. “If I come after you, it wont be funny.”

Dean scampers off the bed, out of the room while John massages on a liberal amount of lube. There can never be too much lube.

Dean returns two minutes later and stands there, impossibly small in the door frame.

“You wash your hands?”

The filthy thing turns around. Down the hall, the water is certainly running, but this boy is notorious for faking this particular task. When he returns this time, John holds Dean’s thin wrists and brings the fingers to his nose for evidence that he even touched the soap.

“Good. Come here.”

The boy climbs up into a close straddle. John lifts him, tucks his cock between his cheeks, splays a wide, hairy hand on his back marveling how tip reaches a few inches below Dean’s shoulder blades.

Shaking, he hides in his father’s neck, mumbling soft apologies. “I didn’t mean it, Daddy. Didn’t want you to kill her.”

“Shut up, Dean.”

John lifts the boy with one hand and lowers him slowly. He fishes around for his hole and tries to guide him down. Dean has to ride. John needs to see every thought and emotion that passes over his face.

Right now, there’s dread in Dean’s wide eyes while he pants like the last horse in the race. Why is his pain every bit as arousing as his pleasure? 

John lays on his back, reaches up and draws the curtain a bit wider. He wipes a hand over Dean’s sweaty, contorted, moonlit face.

Gravity is only helping so much. Only the very tip of John’s dick is in there. It’s a shame, but it’s not going to work this way. Not yet. All things in time.

John swings him around on all fours, facing foot of bed. He’s smelly. The moonlight and the position reveal that the little bugger didn’t wipe well. John leans over the side of the bed, retrieves Dean’s Underoos and uses them to clean him.

He’s still nice and relatively open, though. With an additional squeeze of lube, John’s finger slips in like a warm knife through butter. Dean squirms, but doesn’t complain.

John slaps his little ass in praise. Two fingers work, too. At three, he balks.

“Daddy, please.”

Does the boy not realize he’s alternatively pulling away and bouncing back on them? Can’t decide if he wants it or not. John will make that choice easy.

“What are you supposed to say?”

Of course, Dean resists. His stubbornness has been running rampant all day. Time to break the baby stallion once and for all.

John shoves him into his face, aligns his dick to his hole. That’s right. John’s boy. John’s hole.

This is the most definitive moment in John’s life.  
And he’s failing. It won’t fit. More lube doens’t help. Patient pressing doesn’t work. John’s going to have to go on dreaming and waiting until Dean grows bigger. Until the plugs spread him wider. Tears well at the cruel frustration.

How can this be happening? Aren’t there people who take horse cocks? John’s hung, but he’s no horse. He learned in his military days that anything worth doing requires hard, cold determination.

With an arm hooked around Dean’s neck, John turns his face aside to avoid smothering him. He tucks his chin to the top of Dean’s head and shoves in the tip.

Dean shrieks like he’s being skewered. Then, he’s perfectly silent.

His hole is beyond tight. John’s entire body lights on fire at the near-agonizing sensation of being twisted like a wet rag. He thrusts deeper three, four times before he needs to slow down or its over.

“Holy. Fucking Christ.”

The man doesn’t have a chance. John drives all the way home, his taut body rocketing to its peak before it kips out of his control and over the edge. Shooting, shaking, sobbing in an intoxicated haze of love and relief and utter bliss. Love rushing through him like tidal water.

John’s first time was at thirteen. But he’d never made love. Never even been alive.

Now John knows what rapture possible, everything else will pale. In fact, he can die now. Let them stir his salted ashes in blue Kool-Aid for Dean to drink. For a time, he’ll be even fully within his son’s flawless body. When the time is right, Dean can piss him into the river.

But not today. Not when John can still take this immaculate pleasure every day for the rest of his life. He kisses Dean’s ear, then takes the entire thing in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and inside. John moans at the bitter tang as he enters his boy another way.

He slides a hand under Dean’s belly searching out where his cock distends the skin. The bed trembles as he nuts again, nearly as hard, every bit as enraptured.

When’s the last time he came twice successively? He chuckles and squeezes Dean closer.

Could fall asleep right here, inside him. But post-orgasm clarity tells him he’s already crushing his son. Dean has been heavenly. No fuss, no fight. John wouldn’t have minded hearing him cry out, but this perfect compliance is a dream.

His dick slides out smooth, as if Dean’s ass has produced a whole fresh layer of lubrication. It turns out, the boy is not a biological anomaly. He’s just bleeding - not an endearing flesh wound’s worth of maroon speckles like when John broke Mary Campbell’s hymen. A fuckload of cherry red on John’s cock, gushing from Dean’s ass, soaking the sheets and wrecking John’s high.


	18. Chapter 18

When the bleeding finally stops, John's faith self-renews. His blood-drenched washcloths, blathered apologies and vows did the trick, along with good old-fashioned coagulation.

Eventually, Dean regains a groggy consciousness, groaning and clutching his tummy as he rolls into a fetal position. Then, he stretches out long, turns onto one side and then the other. Unable to ease his discomfort, he lets out a long, primal wail.

Most of Dean’s sounds are a turn on. This noise ties knots in John's guts and sows goosebumps on his skin. He stands at the side of the bed, helplessly watching Dean as writhes and cries.

“Son?”

John doesn’t have to ask where it hurts. Dean tucks his chin to his chest, grips his belly tight.

“Dean, let me…”

John tries to inspect, but the boy screams at the lightest touch. Knowing his tolerance for pain raises John’s alarm to a full, bright red. A good time for prayer.

“Our Father… Don’t punish him for my sins…”

John is sitting on the side of the bed with his head in his hands when Sam appears at the door, sucking his first two fingers. He peers up onto the bed, eyes questioning, wise enough not to ask out loud.

When Sam tries to climb onto the bed with Dean, John sits him on the floor. They go through it two more times before John slaps him. Sam stops. He doesn’t want to hit the boy again right now. He wants Dean better. More than he’s wanted anything in his life. More than he wanted to touch Dean. More than he’d longed to fuck him.

If John could undo it, he would. Do it differently. Wait until Dean was ready. Not do it at all.

The trouble now, besides not having any health insurance, John can’t very well take Dean to a doctor. They’ll take one look at his raw ass and put an end to John’s fairy tale. They’d had a doctor on the premises. In fact, they still do.

Fuck.

In the heat of his passion, John had totally forgotten about the body.

Sam, in his barely comprehensible toddler dialect, asks for breakfast. John lacks the willpower. Tears have been shed, and not a few. He’s barely keeping it together now.

Sam wanders off toward the kitchen on his own.

That’s when John sees him, clear as day for a fraction of a second - the yellow-eyed fucker, standing in the corner of the room, grinning like it’s Christmas morning. By the time John shouts and lunges, the vision is gone.

Sam returns, running, mouth, hands and shirt purple-stained. He stares up at his father and then at the bed. He takes a micro-step toward Dean.

“Don’t.”

John carries Sam under his arm, locks the crying boy in the bathroom. When John pulls on his clothes, there’s still dried blood on his dick. This mission can’t wait.

The only one who is behaving is Dr. Vivica Burris. She’s still laying, half-dressed, in the living room. (Turns out to be a small caliber pistol in her purse.) Sam must have passed her body, but he’s young enough to think she actually fell asleep there. How is anyone to know what Sam thinks when all he speaks is gobbledegook?

For no apparent reason, John’s anger wells up and lashes out at the thought of his younger son. Now that Dean’s not watching, John could strangle him and add the little body to the collection of corpses in the trunk of Vivica’s Ford Focus.

He doesn’t do it. Just fantasizes. Like he’s dreamed of leaving the brat in the woods like a dog that can’t catch mice anymore. One less mouth to feed. Two fewer sad eyes to remind John how thoroughly he’s fucking up all of their lives.

Dean used to look up with admiration. Who knows what he’ll see now when he looks at his father? A beast. A barbarian, too brutal to deserve the gift Dean so willingly gave.

Breathing hard from the exertion of pushing the car, John stands beside the lake, watches until the Focus takes on water, but then floats.

“Fuck, no. No. Sink, you mother fucker.”

The car stalls a moment longer before its front end tips forward. The trunk belches swamp water and it vanishes beneath the surfaces.

Not three months ago, John had chosen the same grave for himself and his boys. He has a reason to live now. If it’s the last thing he’ll do, he’ll save Dean and win back his love.


	19. Chapter 19

John jogs all three miles back to the cabin, deliberating what to do about Dean, but devising no viable plan. The best he formulates is luring another doctor to assess Dean’s condition. Of course, John will have to kill that person, too, which is not his favorite thing. He doesn’t kill because he enjoys it. He kills when it needs doing.

Another problem is that he doesn’t want to leave Dean for the time it’ll take to find someone. He can’t take Dean along when the slightest movement or touch hurts him.

When John reenters the cabin, both boys are howling. He passes the bathroom where Sam is and stands in a state of complete bewilderment, watching Dean suffer.

***

The following morning, John wakes in the rocking chair. He’d pulled it into the room to keep watch over night. Footsteps thud on the porch. Dean is relatively quiet, eyes closed, face scrunched tight, grunting softly in his sleep.

As John peeks through the window, his heart leaps into his throat, takes one look at that plain-clothed cops through the door and sinks beneath his bowels to hide.

He could ignore the door, but the car’s out there. Sam is howling again. The most logical choice would be to run, but he’d never make it with Dean in this state. He’d never try without him. John could always kill the cops and run. It only looks like the two of them, but that kind of heat should be avoided whenever possible. They hunt copkillers to the ends of the earth, with good reason.

There’s always the option of setting fire to the house and dying with Dean in his arms.

John collects the messy baby from the bathroom. Sam is still sticky and stinks of pee noe: the perfect chaos-zone to present when the door opens.

“Sorry for the delay,” John says with an apologetic smile. “It’s a little wild in here. If you gentlemen are Mormons, we’re not —”

“Actually, I’m detective Cole, this is detective Warner. We’re looking for this girl.”

“Oh, wow.” John puts on his best impressed face, even though he could best both of these yokel in hand to hand combat with Sam in one arm.

One of the cops is exhaling stale hotdogs. The other has allergies or a cold, keeps wiping his nose on his sleeve. They are not his equal in any way.

In the moment of truth, John frowns at the mall glamor photo. Vivica’s wearing too much makeup and hairspray. She was far prettier without that junk and John says so.

“So, you know her?”

John smiles directly into the officer’s face. “Yeah, she uh… Well, I can’t say I know her, but… we’ve met.”

The smile gives the officers all they need to know..

Like’s John’s mother used to say, “My boy could charm a fish.”

He’s not just a lady’s man. The masculine charm makes him a man’s man, too. The military background doesn’t hurt John’s confidence or his ability to keep cool under stress. Natural as walking, women want him. Guys want to be him. They might feel differently, if they knew.

Oh, John can make enemies, but he’s already got these guys pegged as a family man and a poor poker player. He knows precisely how to play them both. His heart is grinding the blood through his system at a rate that doesn’t feel healthy, but his smile is solid.

Appearances are all that matters. Even Sam is playing along, clinging in the presence of strangers.

“So, are you saying…” The shorter one, Cole, asks without finishing the question.

“We met at Borders yesterday. Hit it off. Had a couple drinks, here at the place.”

“That would explain the Stamos reference the sister’s talking about.”

These guys might find that a flattering comparison, but John stifles a groan.

“So, wait,” the detective says. “She’s been here?”

There’s no point denying it. If they sweep the house, they’ll find her prints, DNA, the works.

“Yes, sir. Not overlong, but… It was a nice night. Is everything okay, officer? She get home all right?”

The detectives exchange glances.

“Listen, it’s hot as hell,” John says. “You guys want to come in for a drink or anything?”

Inside, if they get into a scuffle, John’s upper hand gets firmer.

“Is anyone else in the house, sir?”

“My other son. He’s under the weather.”

“And this is your place?”

John hadn’t anticipated this question, but the truth is working so far. It’s certainly easier to remember and substantiate. “Actually, we’re renting from the owner.”

“Can I get the owners name?” Cole produces a note pad and pen.

“Um, Jeremiah Duckett.” John leans forward and pretends to watch him write.

“And your name?”

“Sir, what exactly is—”

“We’re just collecting information at this time. It hasn’t even been 24 hours, just her mother works for the governor…” Cole waves the information from the air in front of him. “You know how it is?”

“Is Vikki okay?”

She hadn’t given him the nickname, but it sounds good. Affectionate. Fearless.

“Duckett,” the other detective, Warner, snaps his fingers. “Why is that familiar?”

It takes his partner a moment before he comes up with, “That article. Top ten cold cases in Glades County history.”

“Yeah, yeah. The seminary professor.”

John shakes his head to indicate that he’s not familiar with that article.

“Thirty years ago, this guy and his son vanish,” Cole explains. “Neither heard from since. Experts suspect a murder/suicide. Dad offs his kid, then himself.”

“Why would he do that?” John asks with an easy air, despite the ice trickling through his veins.

“Because he was a freak. You know. Probably touching the kid and whatnot. Any of this sound familiar?”

“Sounds like a movie on the women’s channel.” John says.

The officer chuckles. “So, you’re what? Mister mom here?”

“That’s how it is when the missus dies. Another bad movie,” John answers with the appearance of good-nature although the question was intended to set him off. “Gotta make sure the boys get what they need.”

“Like you got what you needed from Ms. Burris?” The guy is trying to goad him, but John’s got his number.

“Doctor,” he corrects with a smirk. “We had a good time.”

“I don’t doubt it,” the other detective says. “I assume you don’t mind if I look around the cabin and property.

“Be my guest,” John says. “Like I said, my son is ill or I’d show you around myself.”

“Yeah, no. Of course, Mr…”

“Miller.” John’s first lie is easy enough to remember. He shifts Sam in his arms and offers his hand. “Paul Miller.”

He accepts the detective’s card and agrees to be in touch if he hears from Vivica. They also request that he stay put, in case more questions become necessary.

John nods and says, “Of course. I’d actually like to see her again. Lovely young woman.”


	20. Chapter 20

Mid-November is a damn stupid time to flee north, but what choice does John have? If he runs further down the peninsula and the cops give chase, next thing, he'll be sailing a raft into the gulf.

In the rearview mirror, orange-hot flames lick at the tar-black and starless sky. Tears in his eyes not from sorrow, but the smoke. The old wood crackling and wheezing like the ghosts of trees they fell to build this place. The cabin where John Winchester gave away his true virginity is doused with accelerant and will burn to ash. With only a few vital items in the trunk, he makes his exodus.

Can’t help the bumpy gravel road. Begs forgiveness as Dean moans.

John tries to sing to the boy, but words and melodies get lost. Voice trailing off into listless mumbles. His one true love is suffering. Dean’s skin emits its own moist heat. His chest rattles with each inhale. Sweaty cheek resting on Daddy’s lap, Daddy’s hand on his shoulder. John's not even hard.

The closest thing to comfort he can offer his whimpering boy is the diluted whiskey/apple juice he had before they left. John considered sedating Dean for the ride, but couldn’t risk repeating the results his pharmaceutical exploits had on Sam. It’s better to be aware of the pain so they can avoid exacerbating the problem.

The bleeding has mostly stopped, although black traces appear in the fecal matter that drips, apparently beyond Dean’s control. One of Sam’s diapers is stuffed down his undies. It's an inelegant solution, but there's nothing glamorous going on here. They are refugees from yet another late-night fire and John is dizzy with the deja vu.

He doesn’t speed, and doesn't stop driving, not even to clean the children. It gets so the car reeks like an outhouse. It’s wrong to resent children’s weakness, but times like these John is nauseous with regret. He never should have given that woman his cum. Never should have become a father.

When he had no choice, a roadside piss stop. He orders fast food in a baseball cap. Those places always have cameras.

Dean doesn’t eat. In the backseat, Sam slurps nuggets.

John keeps the cap on to pump gas. Dashes into the convenience store and buys a thermometer and some Children's Tylenol. Doesn't use it, though. No instructions about taking with alcohol. Instead John mixes up another batch of liquid comfort: two parts juice, one part Jack.

Dean writhes on his side, chewing his lip. The Alabama welcome sign promises a sweet home. A mile later, Dean starts shrieking.   Still, John drives through the next day and into the following night. When he starts nodding off and the car starts veering, he pays cash at a motel outside of Fayetteville, AR.

Takes the temperature under Dean's pit: 103 ain’t good. None of it’s good. Dean’s not a crier, but he’s weeping now, muffling the sound in a dirty pillow. Sam sucks his fingers, watching his brother instead of the cartoons.

Can't call 911. Too risky. Can't find a veterinarian to kidnap at this hour. John could, of course, end Dean’s misery in a matter of minutes - cover his mouth, pinch his nose. The boy’s in no shape to fight.

There’s no way John could take his son’s life with the boy’s eyes wide and pleading. He fluffs a pillow between two hands. Could he do it this way? Would that be the simplest mercy?

Dean’s eyes flutter open and John tosses the thing aside. A blade would be faster, but messier. But there's no way he could do that.

The boy’s lips part as he gasps for air and he does something he’s never done before: murmurs for his mommy.

Over two years gone. That useless woman who couldn’t cook, sing, or hardly make a bottle.

The day Dean was born, the doctor caught him and put him in John's hands. Even as an infant, John had always carted the boy along on errands and to ball games. It was John, not Mary, who could soothe Dean’s colicky cries just by lifting him from his crib. John, never Mary, who took him to the playground evenings and weekends.

The boy loved his mother, but he was always his father’s son. Now, in his unintentional spite, he’s asking for the dead woman.

"She ain't coming and you know it," John says. "Now, stop it."

Dean wails louder. John’s body flushes. His face burns with unshed tears. He's the one who's broken his boy. He has no choice but to fix him.


	21. Chapter 21

The People take Dean from the weird, stinky man’s arms and lay him down. Flat on his back hurts the worst. They rush the rolling table down a hall. It feels like one of them is goring his belly while the too-bright lights blind him. He hates crying as much as his daddy hates hearing it, but the noise spills out of his mouth. Dean can’t even lay still for the punishment. 

A grown-up in white stands at his shoulders and feet, holding him down while one in a green face mask scissors off his clothes. Their talk is garbled and meaningless. Dean’s entire world is pain. He can only hope they’re going to make him die.

Someone touches his tummy and his spine lights on fire.

One time, Daddy rolled over a frog with the lawnmower. Its body got all mashed up and twitchy, tongue hanging out, guts smushed out the side. Dean had poked it with a stick and sniffed the blood. He's on the other end of the stick now, convulsing and shrieking until his world goes black.


	22. Chapter 22

When Dean’s eyes spark open again, the fire is everywhere in his body. The screaming didn’t help and he can’t cry anymore. He can only suck in great loud bursts of air and hope to die. Big people in green masks hover around him like aliens, chattering while some far-off machine beeps and beeps and beeps.

After a while, they quit poking and holding him down. The agony has petered down to a whisper. A little pain is almost nice, like too-hot bathwater. He’s too sleepy to fuss. It’ll cool down, so why complain? Sit, and boil until Mommy gets it right. 

She swishes her hands between the gum-smelling bubbles. Her hand is like ice on his ankle. 

Dean groans. 

“Are you in pain, dear?”

Dean already hates the nurse for not being Mommy. She’s not even pretty. She’s old with raisiny skin and wisps of hair that stick out like white feathers on an owl’s head. Looking at her makes him want to throw up, so he turns to the curtain. 

“My name is Doris,” Doris says and stands right beside Dean’s head. “I think I will call you Timmy. You look like a Timmy to me.”

Dean doesn’t know the terminology, but he knows what she’s doing. Reverse psychology works on little tiny babies. Even Sam wouldn’t fall for that.

Sam  
Alone with Daddy  
The pain that comes now is a different, chest squeezy kind. 

“Or is your name Jimmy?”

Dean pinches his lips and still doesn’t look. It’s easy not giving her his eyes. Not defending his name is another matter. 

“Or is it Farfignoogin?”

What is that even? Is this lady crazy?  
She’s not going to win. Dean pretends he’s shy. That he can’t talk. That he’s like that little boy in his old preschool who only knows Spanish. 

“I’m just going to write down Mickey Mouse.”

In the corner of his eye, the pen is moving. She’s writing that. It’s too much. That’s not his name!

“No, my name is Dean… I mean… ”

His daddy is going to skin him.

“Okay, Dean,” she says and writes something down. “Can you spell it, please?”

Dean knows how to spell Dean. But he keeps his mouth shut. Too late.

“I’ll just make something up. How’s that?”

It doesn’t matter what she does, as long as she goes away soon. 

“Dean, can you tell me where your mommy and daddy are?”

“Dead.”

Dean is back on track now, with the for real honest truth. 

The ugly lady knows. Dean still stews inside over the mistake.

“Is that very sad for you?”

He shrugs.

“Have they been dead a long time?”

What’s a long time? His belly’s been hurting for a long time. Daddy’s been acting weird for a long time. Reverend Duckett gurgled and rolled around on the floor for a long time before he stopped. Those are all different long times. Mommy’s been dead longer than any of those. Dean shrugs again. 

“So, who takes care of you?”

His shoulders are going to fall off from all this shrugging.

“Can you tell me which adult hurt you?”

He freezes. Doesn’t even breathe. Maybe he’ll go invisible.

“Was it the man who brought you in?”

Dean has no idea who that man was. Some friend of his daddy’s. Anyway, all the questions are making his head hurt. His eyes flutter closed. 

“All right, Dean,” the nurse says. “I can see you’re tired. I’ll let you sleep.”

She pats his hand - the one that doesn’t have the weird sore thing sticking out of it. They’ve plugged Dean in like a TV. Other than that, nothing on him really hurts. The best thing that could happen would be to fall asleep and never wake up. Then Dean wouldn’t have to worry that the pain will come back. Or that his daddy might. 

 

***

Usually, John stays rural: simpler folk, wide-open spaces, no cameras. But the hospital is in a gritty, dirty city.

He watches from across and down the street as his new buddy, Chip, flies through the automatic front doors, sans shaggy coat. The guy runs like hell and disappears behind some dumpsters like a rat. Hospital cops in tow, but too slow and spinning in the parking lot with that helpless ‘which way did he go’ gaze. John picked the right schlub for the task.

Dean knows which name and information to give. They’ve drilled for contingencies like this for years. If his Daddy’s not with him and grown-ups want to know, he’s Dean Andrews.

Turns out both John and Chip served. (“Fuck, yeah, I served. Two tours, man.”) The other, however, was an Army man. 

They’d had only a cursory introduction before John asked his homeless compadre for a favor,   
greasing Chip’s palm with a crisp 50. Another was promised when the deed was done.

“Hey, is the little man going to be okay?”

“He’s going to be great, thanks to you.” John claps the man’s shoulder, eyes fixed on the EMERGENCY ROOM sign. 

“Yeah, no problem.”

Chip doesn’t request his cash. Rubs his fingerless gloves together. Can probably already taste the booze. 

“Listen, Chip,” John says. “I got one more favor, man. Another hundred, if you get it right.”

“Yeah, of course, man. Proud to serve.”

Waiting hurts like a slow constriction of John’s air supply, but he can’t risk Dean seeing him. Can’t fudge the timing. Has to get this right. 

Chip crouches in the shadow with him. “What we waiting for, man?”

John silences him with a raised fist at his shoulder: Hold in Silence. 

As expected, the police sirens. Beat cops trot in. John waits another half an hour after they leave, watching the Emergency room. He tacks another hour onto that, for good measure.

When his gut reports the time is right, John hands Chip his Bowie. The man stares at the knife for a moment, hefts it, getting the feel. At first, John thinks he’ll have to explain or convince. But, nope.

John has been stabbed, shot, clawed, gored, scraped. But never intentionally and never so ineptly.  It’s probably just dumb luck that the guy didn’t hit anything vital.

“Like that?”

John winces, staring at the hilt protruding from his bicep. “Oh yeah, that’s great.”

As promised, he pays. Chip lights up like Vietnamese New Year’s. Turns his back to count his green. Without a sound, John dislodges the knife from his arm and slits Chip’s throat. The blood-splattered bills and the high probability of being caught are the price of Dean’s health care.

By the time John limps into the ER, blood cleaves to the inside of his sleeve, drips off his fingers. Beyond the partition, some toddler screams like it’s on a spit. 

When he’s finally called, he sits in a cloud of stinging antiseptic, watching the triage nurse. John answers truthfully, “Some fucker stabbed me. Took my money.”

He apologizes for his language and then, casually, asks about the kid. 

“What kid?”

“Buzz in the waiting room is some kid came in here. Jumped the line.”

The nurse purses her lips and marks her chart. Tough bird. 

“Well, they’re all out there praying for him,” John says. “I just figure I’d like to know what I’m praying about.”

The nurse looks him in the eye, face softening, only slightly, for a second. She hardens again to the no-time-for-bullshit mask she wears to survive this job. 

“You can pray for the doctors over at Children’s. May their hands be steady,” she says. “And may the police find whatever monster is responsible and break him into a million pieces.”


	23. Chapter 23

This madness must end, and there’s only one way. 

On a chilly November morning in Greasy, Oklahoma (that’s the actual town name) John parks a quarter-mile from an old, reportedly abandoned sawmill. He peels off his jacket, rolls up his sleeve and inspects the soiled bandage on his arm. Crushes a few bitter Execedrin between his teeth, gravel crunching beneath his boots as he walks to his trunk. Between the medicine and the adrenaline, he won’t be feeling any of this pain in a minute. 

Every monster has a particular stink. Demons, it’s the rotten eggs stench of sulfur. Werewolves smell like unwashed dog and shit. Nothing stinks worse than a vampire den: air dense with old blood and decay. It accosts John’s senses even before he kicks in the door. 

One hand fires a pistol, the other slings a machete. Three vamps dive at him, hissing. They meet instant deaths. The next two require effort, but John brings them down. 

The boy is crouching in the corner, head low, body hunched in a defensive stance. His teeth are bared, but he’s not attacking, yet. 

“Jason?”

Another beast knocks John’s blade from his injured hand. He shoots it between the eyes, throwing off its balance long enough to pick up his machete and removes its head.

The final creature between John and his prize must be the den leader.  Showing more than enraged teeth, she fights with grace and intelligence. It’s a pleasure to face a worthy opponent. A solid kick to the chest knocks John onto his ass. He spits blood and groans, “I just want the kid.”  

“He’s mine,” she hisses, keeping the boy behind her. “Look what you’ve done to my family, you fucking animal.”

The hurt and anger are her downfalls. In a mindless fury, she throws herself at John. He rolls aside, grabs his machete and disconnects the snarling head from her shoulders.

He lies on his back for a second, catching his breath. 

The boy stands and growling, takes a step toward him. John sits up, wielding the blade - most useful against nightwalkers.

“Don’t,” he warns. “Jason Dashner?”

Blue eyes narrow in familiarity.

“Your folks want you to have this.”

John pulls the state football championship ring from his shirt pocket and tosses. The kid catches and stares between the man and his prize, awaiting an explanation.

“I’m what’s called a hunter. Kind of a paranormal mercenary.”

When John spoke those words to Jason’s parents, Mr. Dashner had clung to her husband’s arm while her husband said, “Thank God. Everyone else thinks we’re crazy. Hell, we thought we were crazy.”

The boy had the flu, down for three days, during which time he was strangely reclusive. Wouldn’t see his mother or girlfriend. Then he’d vanished from his bed. The following evening, Jason’s mother had watched her handsome, all-state son suck the blood from the family cat before he scampered off into the woods behind the house. She’d been too shocked to call after him.

Football loving local cops assumed the woman was delirious. One state detective suggested a cult. John held a long hope that the young man hadn’t yet fed on human flesh. That would make all the difference.

“Dear God.” The father cringed. “Did you say feed?”

The following morning, in the corpse-littered den, John explains his work to Jason. The boy nods and slides to the floor, back to the wall. “So, you’re here to kill me.”

“No.”

“Why not? Isn’t that what hunters do? Kill things?”

That is the job description John created for himself, but it doesn’t have to be that way. What if he could help monsters who wanted to change? Look at Jason. In the first quarter of his life. Maybe John could bring him back.

Compassion for the enemy is unfamiliar territory, but Jason Dashner is barely 17, sitting with his face in his palms. His fair hair hasn’t been washed in days. Dingy, sleeveless t-shirt reveals smooth, muscular quarterback’s shoulders, skin covered in freckles like flecks of toffee in vanilla pudding. Beautiful young man. Not really a child anymore, and not generally John’s choice of tea, but he understands why high school and colleges coaches are notorious leches.

Interestingly, throughout his years of football, baseball, wrestling, none of them tried a thing with John. He’d almost be offended if he didn’t understand. Lions prefer not to fuck with hyenas.

John might live to see that day when Dean is a glorious man-child like Jason Dashner.   
Will John still want his son then? Or will he only want to see Dean thrive? In any case, if the tables were turned, he’d want some hunter to give his boy a chance. 

“Please, man,” the kid sighs, wearily dragging his head back and forth. “These guys won't let me die.”

“What have you done to deserve death, Jason?”

He drags his head, back and forth. “I should never have gone home.”

“Your folks are glad you did." 

“I thought I could visit Keely. It was dumb.”

This is John’s first time hearing this story. 

“I almost didn’t stop, man.”

“Stop?”

The kid raises his eyes: steel-blue, not Dean’s dusky green, but pretty. One hell of a good-looking kid.

“She let me,” Jason says. “Bite her. Said I could. Actually, she was into it. While we… you know. Said it was hot. But I almost… Could have really hurt her.Maybe worse. ”

So, even if he hasn’t hunted, he’s tasted human blood. John scratches his beard scruff.

“I don’t know how much longer I can go without draining somebody, man. It’s better than coke.” His eyes go wide. “Shit. God, Don’t tell my parents I said that.”

This kid is a vampire, but he doesn’t want his parents to know he’s done blow. John snickers. Jason notices his amusement and wrinkles his brow, confused, but also comforted.

“Let me ask you this, Jay. Your parents call you that, right?”

“Everybody calls me Jay. It’s cool.”

John settles onto the floor beside him, machete across his lap. “Have you seen your demon?”

“What?”

“Your demon.”

He’s written countless journal entries about it. For the first time, John lays out his theory: when a human being becomes a monster, their soul is guided by a demon, like good people get guardian angels. Hence, that old saying ‘the devil made me do it.’

Jason gouges his eyes with the heels of his hands. “So pretty much every scary thing I’ve ever heard of is real?”

“And a lot you haven’t.”

“So, have you seen yours?”

“No, man. Only the bloodsucking freaks with the teeth.”

“Would you show me yours?”

Jason squints as if John asked him to drop trou. The thought has flitted across his mind. There’s an alluring fragility and youthfulness about this kid, although his body is nearly mature - an old boy, not quite a man. 

“Come on,” John says. “I’ll show you mine.”

He flashes a sincere and natural pearl-white smile. Jason bows and covers his, bashful. Beautiful. 

“Seriously. Have at it. First me, then you.” John opens his mouth wide as if he were in the dentist’s chair.

“Why?”

“Because you’re the only sane vamp I ever met. Usually, they’re a mindless blur and I’m less interested in studying the teeth than avoiding them.”

“Man.” 

“How can I make you feel better about it? Are you hungry?”

“Nah. Had a…” Jason looks away and mutters the word poodle. 

John doesn’t even try not to laugh. Jason looks hurt for a moment and then laughs, too.

“See?” John says, inching closer. “So I’m not in danger, right? Let’s assume I find a way to cure you — ”

“Is there—”

“Where there’s a will…”

The kid takes a deep breath, flashes his overbite. Then a full row of sharp ones slides out on top.

“Would you look at that?” John huffs out an impressed breath. “May I?”

Jason hesitates a moment longer before peeling back his lips and allowing John to finger the rim of his gums. A row of razor-sharp thrashers in front of his human teeth. He opens to reveal two more rows, staggered like a shark’s. Totally different than John has ever seen them depicted in movies. 

He knicks himself, yelps and quickly retracts his finger. For lack of a better plan, John sticks it in his mouth where the kid won’t smell the temptation. 

Too late. Jason squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck, man.” He opens them with a hazy, half-drunk, lecherous glare. “Fuck.”

His mouth hangs wide, John’s dick responding with a slight nod. He’ s heard the argument that vampires and werewolves and all their night-dwelling brethren are the next phases in human evolution. Living and hunting in packs. Voracious eaters and lovers.

John’s pulse raises as he imagines feeding this baby monster his cock.

Jason retracts his teeth. “Can you fix it?”

“You know, Jay, your demon wouldn’t have horns or anything like that,” John says. “We’re not talking about your classic red guy with the tail any more than you look like Nosferatu.”

“What is Nos—”

“He’d look like a normal human, your demon. Maybe the eyes are different.”

“Like glowy?”

“Yes.” Finally. “Like glowy.”

“Yeah, yeah. That guy. Sure. He’s around all the time. Not all the time but…”

“Focus for me,” John leans closer. He’d gladly do the sucking for this information. “How do you summon him?”

“Summon?”

“Make him come.”

“Yeah, I know what it means. I don’t do that. Why would I do that? He comes around when things are really shitty. Like to watch or laugh or whatever. Sometimes he yells advice like my dad at a game. I hate that shit.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“My dad?”

John inhales, gathering patience. “Your demon.”

“Uh...I don’t know, man. I guess when I was drinking Keely. That was fucking awful. I mean… Listen, dude, if I… if she gets pregnant while I’m like this. What will the baby be?”

That topic is outside of John’s expertise and he admits as much.

“Would you kill it? I mean, if it’s like me. Like this. Even a little bit.”

“Yes, I would.”

Jason sighs. “Thank God. I don’t think I could do that.”

“Did you ever see your demon before they turned you?”

“No, never.”

“Jason, I believe that killing your demon will extinguish your urges? The teeth. It’ll lessen your strength, too, but you’ll be … you again.”

“Then let’s go get the guy.”

“That’s why you’re a champ.”

The boy shifts to stand and John lops off his head before he ever knew what was coming. Good kid. Not worth the risk.


	24. Chapter 24

Sometimes, when they share a bed and no one is around, Dean tells stories about a secret lady named Mommy. Sam has never seen her, but Dean makes him love her.

Ladies have boobies and softer voices and no beards. Mostly, they’re less scary. But the sleeping lady in the chair isn’t the one from Dean’s stories.

Her sneezy-sweet skin itches his nose. Her lollipop-red lips frown, eyes painted black like a bad dream.   
   
“Bless you, sweet cake,” she says but doesn’t wipe away the slime from Sam’s nose.

She lets him eats it. Nice lady. 

It’s been a good day with Not-MommyLady, but Sam’s eyes hurt from all the cartoons and not cartoons. His brain buzzes from the colors and canned laughter.

He grips a blanket tight, climbs onto a bed. Curls up in the middle for a nap or night night. 

“Sorry, kid. Your daddy only paid for four hours. I got to work.”

Sam wakes up, the lady is gone. 

He finds three fries under the table and slurps the flavorless iced soda in the bottom of his cup. 

He kicks off his heavy diaper, stinky, but free. 

It takes a forever of trying and crying, but Sam finally opens the door. Knocked back by the chilly wind, but spurred on by his snarling tummy, he steps out into the concrete world. 

***

John Winchester smokes two Marlboros. That moment of silence behind the wheel of his car will serve as a memorial. Rest peacefully, young Jason Dashner.  

John snuffs his cigarette and sketches what he learned about vamp teeth. He couldn’t have returned the boy the way he was. The alternative was to torture and stress the kid hoping to conjure the vampire’s demon. Then John could inquire about his own, kill it, stop hurting Dean.

He gave Jason quite a gift in that swift death. And left himself at square one.  
   
There will be other new vamps who might cooperate. John updates his demon pages. Perhaps Jason was too new to summon his demon. There must be a way.

It rang true that the “glowy-eyed” fucks appear in times of chaos and turmoil. John first saw his demon when he was eleven years old. 

His mother minding the neighbor’s son, although that’s generous.   
His mother had been ironing while John watched the boy. Entertaining him with wooden trains and blocks. Without premeditation, he’s cornered the boy, Georgie Holm, towered over him. One of John’s fingers had covered his own lips. Shhh. With the other, he brought Georgie’s fat paw to his crotch.

No tears. No complaints. Georgie’s brown eyes wide, waiting to see what John would do next. In the same moment that John began to court his options, another boy John’s age had shimmered into the corner of the room. Grinning. Yellow eyes glinting as he whispered, “Put it in his mouth, Johnny. Make him lick it.”

John doesn’t write any of that. Instead, he opens the other journal - the Dean journal (quietly nicked from Borders in Fort Myers, FL) and passes an hour with charcoal drawings and pitiful attempts at poetry. 

I wrote melodies   
Inside him   
With my fingers.  
Our story began  
With his scream  
And ended  
With his soul  
On my lips

John tucks the Bible-torn pages from Duckett’s cabin on which he’d scribbled an ode to Dean that first night under the stars. Ages (less than a week) ago. 

Now he finally has the time to seek words for the soft sounds Dean made. To recount the places and ways they’ve touched. 

Too much. Too soon, my love.

John details his yet unrealized plans.

He dates the entry 11/15/84 and hides the book among his belongings like a pirate hordes treasure. When he finds his demon, when he murders the bastard that causes this sickness, John will burn this diary. Not a moment before. 


	25. Chapter 25

“Dean Andrews, slow down!”

Dean is good at responding to his “name,” but he’s not slowing down for nobody. 

When the floors are freshly waxed, he runs in his hospital socks and sliiiiiides clean to the elevator, laughing like the wild-man Nurse Marnie calls him. That’s one of many awesome things about being in the hospital. 

By the time she catches up, Dean’s out of breath and there’s a little twinge in his belly. As he clutches his tummy, he smiles and wiggles the loose tooth with his tongue.

“See?” Marnie says, dropping a soft hand on his shoulder. “What did I tell you?”

She told Dean he would mess around and rip his sutures again and wind up having to stay an Extra Extra day. Dean has already decided to never leave this place. If only Sam was sick, too. 

Marnie lifts Dean into a wheelchair. Lifting his feet in front hurts, so he rests them and grips the handles, squealing, “Faster!”

She picks up the pace a tiny bit, but not enough. So, Dean hops out and runs ahead.

“Dean!!”

He giggles and runs on, jiggering that tooth, feet skidding as he rounds a corner. 

Dean used to believe that the best thing would be for his mommy to come back. Getting sick is the best thing that ever happened. 

He’d been so scared when Daddy dumped him into the arms of that big, stinky man thinking Daddy was mad enough to give him to whatever old, yucky man wanted him. Then, that man was gone and the hospital people were poking him in awful ways. 

But then Dean woke up here, with the bright lights and the cartoon animals floating on the curtains. There’s even a whole wall in Dean’s room where he and his roommate, Diego, can use markers and draw and erase anything they want. Mostly, they draw dogs, horses and cars. Dean can’t remember the last time he’d talked to another kid before he met Diego.

That’s not all, either.   
They have pizza nights, which Dean may not eat yet. Movie nights, where Dean has to sneak to see PG-13 ones because the nurses think he’s a baby. They get clowns sometimes, and face painters, and singing people with guitars. There’s a lady who reads to everyone in the big room. And another lady who reads to Dean in his own bed. Next week, there will be puppets and karate guys. Dean has only been in the hospital a week, but it’s the best place he’s ever been. 

He’s not even jealous of Diego’s mom and dad and uncles and aunts and cousins and abuela visiting because they always bring him a candy bar (which he’s not allowed to eat yet). 

This place is full of nurses (who are like mommies), doctors (who are like mommies and daddies), cleaners (mostly daddies) and babysitters like Marnie who look after the kids who have no parents. 

The only thing Dean doesn’t like is the talk doctors and they’re answerless questions about what happened to him and how it made him feel. The first time they asked where it hurt, he pointed to his belly, his bottom, and his brains. Then, he stopped answering, in case they tried to trick him into admitting something. 

More than once, he’d told them about Sam. Go get my brother.   
But nobody could do anything without his father’s name. Dean bit his lip, plagued by a vivid image of his daddy choking his neck if he squealed.

The only other bad thing in the hospital is going to potty. Even that’s better.    
Mostly it’s ice cream and jello life.

According to Marnie, there’s a family waiting for Dean. Not Daddy and Sam, but another family. 

“Nice people,” she promises. 

But why can’t he just live in the hospital?  

In the beginning, Dean doubted whether they could fix him. Doctor Burris hadn’t helped Sam. As far as he knows, Sammy is still asleep. Thinking about him slows Dean to a walking pace.

He stops mid-stride. Mouth wide. His daddy is leaning on the nurses' station, turns and winks right at him before he continues talking to the nurse behind the counter. 

“Cute kid,” he says, not to Dean but to the nurse. 

Dean’s whole body is cold, like sitting in that bath of water after what happened with the Rev. He keeps walking, though, because that’s what Daddy wants him to do. 

No. It’s not Dean’s daddy. They wouldn’t let him into a nice place like this. It’s a man who looks like Dean’s daddy, all dressed up in blue like a cleaner man. Or does he work here now?

Maybe it’ll be okay with everybody else around to keep him nice.  
It’s spooky like the Rev said about Jesus and the thief in the night. Doesn’t sound so bad idea when it’s Jesus, but when it’s Dean’s daddy, Dean gets the goosebumps and the shivers.

“Can I go back to my room, please?”

He sits in the wheelchair and lets Marnie push. His legs are pudding. 

Dean lies on his bed with the HELP button in his right hand. He’s got more flowers and beanie babies than Dean has ever seen in one place. There’s a lollipop as big as his head. His favorite gift is a shark puppet that the nurses sometimes use to make him gobble his medicine. 

A glass angel clings to the window, in the morning, sunlight sprinkles through the colors and land on Dean’s face when he wakes up. It’s like his mommy smiling down on him.

Usually, when dinner comes, Dean gobbles his soap and jello and pouts until they give him more. Tonight, he can hardly swallow the first bite. Thinking of that haunted cabin in the woods, his throat closes up like there’s a fist around it.

His nose stings. 

When the good dream ends, it’s back to the nightmare.   
Dean cradles that HELP button and strokes it with his thumb. 

So far, the talk doctors have only asked who was mean to Dean. They’ve never asked who Dean killed, or who he made his daddy kill. The nurses and doctors adore him because they don’t know what he is. Daddy knows and came back for him, anyway. 

Dean could push this button. And he could watch Diego die, and Marnie. Maybe even his daddy will get mad enough to kill him. Goodness knows he’s left Sammy alone long enough. 

Dean holds his breath until the tears stop. Until his lungs hurt. Until his fingers tingle. Then he lets go and fixes his face. Finally, he pushes the button. Lena, the night nurse comes right away. 

“What do you need, sweetheart?” She asks. “You’re not hurting, are you?”

“Can I get extra jell-o, please?”


	26. Chapter 26

Actually, Dean’s rescue was simple: a clever plan well executed. John posed as a custodian, scoped out the most likely single nurse to have loose lips when she’d been well-fucked. He’d struck pure gold with Holly. Once her head was resting on his arm, John only had to say, “Bet you see some crazy, sad things in there.” 

The pearly gates swung open: info on Dean’s arrival, his condition, treatment, social workers, and release. Dean was, according to Holly, the saddest story they’d seen in a while. John wasn’t screwing her for her opinions and ignored that bit. When the time was right, he’d extracted the target. 

John even collected some medical supplies: to re-suture his jagged wound from the Chip incident and see to Dean’s bandages.

The last six days, John has been decapitating teenagers, defrauding and fucking strangers, and dying inside without his true love. All he wants now to get Dean somewhere, get him naked and taste every inch of him. John would give both legs to be inside him again.

But not now. Not yet. 

“Bet you thought I’d left you, didn’t you?” He grins over at his son.

Dean is conspicuously quiet. Hands folded in his lap. John doesn’t ask about his bulging pockets. Apparently, Dean nicked something from the hospital, as well. 

“They take good care of you?”

The boy nods. Possibly still recovering. 

There was a moment, though John will never speak of it, when he considered not returning. Whatever boys’ home the state cooked up would have provided better food, clothing and shelter, but no one will ever love Dean the same.

“Where’s Sam?”

Surprising it’s taken this long. They’re already across the state line into Missouri. Dean must have assumed his brother was asleep. Now he’s on his knees, peering at the empty back seat.

“Dean, sit down and turn around.”

Dean obeys and repeats, “Where is Sam?”

John takes a deep breath. 

“Where’s my brother? Daddy? What did you do to him?”

John grits his teeth, prepared to let the little monster scream, tug his arm and whatever floods this mini-rage out of his system. The trouble is, Dean could aggravate himself and rupture his injury. Holly mentioned that the boy’s overactivity resulted in replaced stitches. John is technically qualified to do it, could sedate him and repair things but the risk of infection isn’t worth it. 

“Where is Sam? Daddy, please, talk to me! Where is Sammy?”

When a child throws a tantrum the worst thing is to honor it. 

With the car sailing at 75 MPH, Dean opens the car door and sticks out a leg. He unlatches his belt. Before he can dive, John grabs his arm.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m going back for Sam.”

“Sam is gone, Dean.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Yes, he is, son.”

“Gone where?”

“I don’t know.”

It’s the God’s honest truth. John had returned to the hotel, granted hours later, but with every intention on paying Candi for her precious time. The whore was gone, and so was the boy. 

“Sam is gone,” John repeats.

Dean sits silently for a moment. Just when John believes it’s sunk in, the boy screams, louder than before, “Go back! Go back! Go back! Go back!”

Dean’s razor claws might do serious damage if John weren’t bearded. He takes a chunk of ear and troubles his face like a swarm of bees. 

“I want my Sammy.”

“Dean.” John holds him off with one hand while trying to keep the car in its lane. “I went back for him and—”

“Went back? Did you leave him? Why are you always leaving him? He’s a baby.”

“All right, son. Calm down. We’re going to —”

“Go back.”

“We can’t go back,” John says, internal temperature rising. “They’re going to be looking for you.”

“Go back. Wherever you left Sam, go back. Go back.”

Dean says it one hundred times before John fucking turns around. In the middle of the road. Hairpin turn. It’s a twenty-five-minute drive in the opposite direction of safe, but it’s this or beat Dean quiet. 

“You got ten minutes,” Johns says, pulling into the motel parking lot. “Then we’re out of here, regardless. Got it?”

Dean nods. 

“I’m going to sit here and watch for cops. I hear, see anything, I’ll swipe you and we’re out of here, regardless.”

“Got it.”

Dean slams the door and takes off.

“Hey,” John shouts of his window. “Slow down and take it easy.”

 

***

 

Dean asks in the lobby first, describing his brother to the toothless, prune-man behind the counter. Too much like the reverend, but without the hair. 

Sorry, kid. Ain’t seen no little boys. (And if I had, would’ve ate him by now).

Five minutes later, six doors down, an old lady opens the door. A heady blend of Little Debbie snack cakes and Spanish music greet him even before she speaks.

“Well, I was wondering when this D was going to show up.”

Dean smiles and slides past her into the room. Inside, odors of disinfectant and shrimp fried rice mingle with other, less familiar smells. 

Sam sits at a folding table, swinging his legs. Noticing Dean, he hops down, totters over and wraps his arms around his brother’s legs.

“He’s been waiting on ya.”

Dean laughs and ruffles Sammy’s hair. He kneels, searches Sam’s eyes for the last week’s story. Then, Dean sweeps him into a big, long hug although he stinks like smoke and sweat. His only buddy. His everything good. Dean strokes his brother’s soft hairs and kisses the top of his head. The most precious thing in the world. Great as the hospital was, he couldn’t have stayed away from Sam long. 

“You ought to have seen him,” the old lady says. “Just wandering around out there. Nothing on his bottom and a cup a soda every bit as big as he is. I said, ‘Lord have mercy, little man. Haven’t you got nobody?’ He’s been here going on three days. It got so we can kind of understand each other and he says to me, D is coming. Because I was going to call the po-lice and Sam said, ‘Hold up, Miss Lili.  Don’t you call no police. D is coming for me.’ And here you are, just like he said. Isn’t that right, little man?”

Sam grins and nods, fingers in his mouth.

“What I tell you ‘bout that?”

Sam pulls them out and frowns.

“Going to give you big old buck teeth just like this.” Mis Lili smiles and her teeth aren’t so buck, but it’s gross holding Sam’s spit hands.

“Listen, D. Tell me this,” she says. “Ain’t y’all got no folks or nothing? Sam tried to tell me, but I couldn’t make sense of it.”

“Yes, ma’am. My daddy is… He’s outside.”

“Well, good. I’m glad to know it.” Miss Lili sits down at the table where Sam had been seated and knocks on the wood. “Well, Sam, we going to finish up our game before you go?”

She picks up a handful of cards. Sam has hardly scurried back into his seat when there’s a knock at the door - hard and heavy. They all stare. Dean’s heart thuds under his shirt as Miss Lili opens for their daddy. 

He doesn’t smile when he sees Sam. Nods and says, “I told you come right back.”

Holding Sam’s hand, Dean helps Sam down from the chair. 

“That’s some boy you got there,” Miss Lili says. “Smart.”

Daddy looks her silver braids, purple jumpsuit, the short white hairs sprouting on her chin. Every single piece of her is good. The way his Daddy stares is not. 

Dean drags Sam between them and says, “We’re ready.”

Miss Lili rushes to the table where she scrapes together the cards and slips them into a box. All for Dean. 

“I don’t know how to play.”

“Let Sam show you. Oh!” She leaps into the air. And claps. “Almost forgot. Me and Sam was about to have a Cinnabon.”

The treat comes steaming from the microwave, but since the boxes are in the trash, she wraps half newspaper. She hands the package to John.

“Still warm.”

He thanks her, squinting through snakey eyes. Dean takes his father’s free hand and leads him through the door.   

With Sam in his backseat and Dean up front with the warm pastry in his lap, Daddy leans in the driver’s door.

“You kids just wait here a moment.”

“Daddy, please. Let’s just go. Please.”

He doesn’t even turn around. After a couple of knocks, Miss Lili answers her door and lets their father inside. 


	27. Chapter 27

The cops might have believed the old woman if she called. Most likely, law enforcement doesn’t make house calls to that part of town. But if she did report having collected a white toddler, they’d have come running with their CPS bullshit.   
Always better safe.

John never kills for grins and it always sours his guts for a few hours.

“I ought to pull over and beat your little ass for that stunt, Sam.”

A roadside spanking would obliterate the edge like letting steam off a boiler.  

“Daddy.”

Dean’s hand rests high on John’s thigh, squeezing. Flirty little tart. Sam is in the backseat, sitting up, wide-eyed, so there’s nothing John can do about it.  
Want and anger clash in his swampy center. He’ll get where they’re going, then decide whether to whip one son or fuck the other one.   
Then again, why choose? It’s been a stressful day. A man deserves relief. 

 

***

 

John opts for a westward escape from Arkansas. They ride silently through Oklahoma, stopping in Centralia for gas and truck stop breakfast. They hop onto 35 north as the sky dumps fat, noisy drops on the impala’s roof. Cruise past Wichita. For no particular reason, John drops anchor in Jackson, Wyoming. Around midnight, he piles his boys out of the car through winds whipping 10 degrees below zero and into a motel room. 

By five o’clock the following evening, he’s paid two months advanced rent on a tiny, one-room, barely furnished apartment next to somebody who knows that Thanksgiving was on their tails. As they trudged up the stairs, Dean turns his nose to the ceiling and sniffs like a hunting dog. 

“Smells good, don’t it?” John nods as he turns the key to their temporary, new home. 

For their supper, John had bought a few cans of Campbell’s Minestrone and Wonder bread. He invites Dean to stand beside him while meal heats. That way, every time Sam is distracted, he can wink, or peck Dean’s root beer-flavored lips, or pinch his darling butt. 

After the meal, Dean stands on a chair and washes their dishes. Shortly after that, his long lashes start gumming together. John carries him to bed like a princess. Tucks him with a deep kiss.

Apparently, that hag got Sam accustomed to staying up late. John could drive back to Arkansas and strangle her again for that. The tiny fiend doesn’t conk out until 2AM. Mouth wide, limbs sprawled while Dean curls on his side in the remaining mattress real estate. 

John doesn’t let his older boy suffer that indignity. In fact, he’s been waiting all night for this moment. An eternity.

He lays Dean in the other single bed where there’s space to spread out. Still, the boy coils like a pill bug. John kneels, lightly pinching the shell of Dean’s ear until his face scrunches. John blows cool air on his nose and green eyes flutter open.

“Hey there.”  

Dean winces and squeezes his eyes shut again, knees drawn to his chin. 

“Hey. Does something hurt?”

John strokes Dean’s back, but the boy flinches. 

“Dean, look at me.” John waits for compliance. “Did somebody do something to you?”

To his credit, the answer dawns quickly.  

“Oh, baby. I’m so sorry. I… Your old dad got a bit carried away, didn’t he?”

Dean’s defensive posture doesn’t change. Neither does his mistrustful expression.

“I get it. I owe you more than apologies,” John says. “I owe you everything. I owe you my life. You’re my whole life. Do you know that? The only reason I…”

Words are never sufficient. 

“Dean, I swear to you that I will never, ever hurt you that way again. And I will never let you go again.”

John would sooner devour his son’s flesh than repeat his sins.

“What else should I say?”

Dean’s muscles unfurl slowly, cautious beginnings of trust. He doesn’t reach out, but tacit forgiveness is more than John deserves.

“I missed you.”

Dean blinks.

“You’re supposed to say it back.”

“Oh.”

“I missed you, Dean.”

Still nothing.

“Dean?” 

These are the moments when his son tries his patience. John balls fists to keep from choking him. 

“I missed you, too,” he finally mutters. “And Sammy.”

“Is Sam in this bed?” John asks between his teeth. “This is our private time, for you and me, remember? Our special love time.”

“Like with Dr. Burris.”

John winces at her name and then smirks. “You don’t need to be jealous. I’ve been going crazy without you.”

Dean doesn’t respond. 

“Hey. Look.” John crosses the room and forages in his duffel. “I got you these.”

A pair of plastic Dollar Store nun chucks. Dean surveys his prize and looks away. Then, he rubs a finger over the packaging. Within a minute, he’s swinging them over his shoulder, transformed into an enthusiastic, if inept Bruce Lee. John laughs and holds a finger to his lips. Let Sam sleep. Dean nods, still waving his weapons.

“I heard you had surgery.”

At that, Dean sobers. The nun chucks hang from one hand. 

“Can I look?”

John lays Dean flat on his back and rolls up his shirt. The bandage covers his lower belly. John matches his breath to Dean’s deepening inhales. What to expect under this gauze? It could be uneven, disgraceful scars to remind Dean of his father’s fumbling first attempts at lovemaking.

According to Holly, the nurse, a Hartmann procedure had repaired Dean’s perforated large intestine. The “animal” who’d “assaulted” him had ruptured the “poor boy’s” bowels. Stated that way, it sounds atrocious. John knows the truth: the boy’s lover was so entranced that he drove his passion through his core. Would have fucked into his immortal soul if he could reach it. 

Dean had rectal fissures, as well, and signs of dehydration and malnutrition. Not to mention his blood alcohol level, which could have been fatal. His skin was covered in what the dermatologist falsely concluded were roach bites. Every diagnosis was an indictment of John’s parenting. His piss-poor decision making. His stupidity and brutality. Rather than get pissed and twist the little bitch’s neck, he decided to be better for his son. 

The boy whimpers as John tenderly peels back the bandages, preparing himself for an ugly scar and pus. Instead, three neat, pink incisions blink back - from his groin, his hip and a barely visible one in his belly button. John silently thanks the surgeon for the worshipful hand to preserve this flawless skin. There are still internal sutures that the body will absorb.

He spot-cleans with alcohol pads while asking meaningless questions to distract his boy: Did the surgery hurt? Were they nice to you? Was there lots of ice cream?

When Dean hisses. John’s hand halts in mid-air. “Does it hurt?”

“Cold.”

Dean doesn’t complain again. Lets his father redress the tiny wounds and kiss them over the gauze. A few more days, he’ll be back to his factory settings. 

While John never intended to hurt the boy, it’s one hell of a thought: his dick tearing into Dean’s innards, literally ripping him to rags. The blood races south even as John’s brain scrambles to talk him down from arousal.

Not tonight. Tonight, he’ll let Dean rest and heal. Watch him sleep. Worship in silence. 

Then again, it wouldn’t hurt to sit Dean in his lap and pepper his soft neck and holy face with kisses. Holly had talked about how endorphins heal. That was her idea of sexy talk, but it’s true. Affection heals. If Dean can relax and let himself be loved, the quicker he’ll be ready for more. 

In the name of medical diligence, John slides his tongue into the boy’s ear.

“Do you like this?”

Dean shakes his head. He shivers and wipes dry on his shoulder. John chuckles. 

“How about this?”

A scalp massage is better. Dean nods and leans back into it, letting John smooch his shoulder and hum that Bad Company song against his Adam’s apple. 

When it looks like the boy is falling asleep again, John takes his face between both hands and licks his way into Dean’s mouth. Tickles inside his cheeks and soft pallet with the tip of his tongue. Dean shifts his bottom on John’s hard cock, arms hanging at his side, body limp and yielding. His little prick is stiff, too, a bump in his underwear. He watches his father massage his thighs, his tiny balls, the huge, hairy hand covering his crotch.

“Do you like that?”

Dean swallows and his mouth falls open before he nods.

“Good.”

They can both get what they need tonight without John’s cock getting wet. He turns Dean so his back is pressed to John’s chest. He wraps an arm around Dean’s ribs and uses the boy’s groin as a handle, rubbing him back and forth over his cock.  

“Oh, baby. God, Dean. Do you feel how bad I want you, baby?”

The pressure and motion is good, but he needs more friction. The boy grips his arm as John grinds up and presses down, vigorously working his son like a toy. Dean gasps.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry.” 

So close. 

John loosens the arm around Dean’s belly heeding sounds that may mean pain or pleasure. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets his son go. Dean hops down, scurries to the other bed, lays with his back turned.

John drops his head back and breathes into his palms. A full ice bath won’t fix this.

“Dean.”

The child hesitates but then glances over his shoulder. 

“Come here, boy.” John draws out his cock. “I want you to see what you do to me.”

He sits up on the side of the bed. LIke a good soldier, Dean stands at attention at his father’s knees watching as John brings himself off, choking back his grunts to let Sam sleep. It’s not what he wants, but Dean’s health is more important than his lust. With jizz splattered on his belly and oozing down his fingers, John offers his hand.

“You want to taste?”

Dean shakes his head.

“Okay… Let’s get to sleep, huh?” John cleans up on the sheet. “You look pretty tired.”

Dean turns around. 

“Stay?”

They lay with John’s elbow under Dean’s head, Dean’s spindly arm across his father’s wide chest. The boy can’t resist playing with the hairs on his chest. John smiles, kisses his son’s forehead. 

“You’re the love of my life, Dean. Do you know what that means?”

He doesn’t know, so John explains.

“God sent you to me.”

Dean nods, already falling asleep.

“I’m going to be so good to you.”

Once the child is asleep, John gets up to piss. Then, he writes in his journal, describing the taste of his lover’s mouth, trying to find words for the music he makes in his pleasure. His still-new scent, the spring-leaf-softness of his skin. He draws his son as a dark cherub with black wings, elven tattoos and dick as big as his arm.


	28. Chapter 28

This is going to be awesome and sweet: both words Dean learned from the teens at the hospital. It’s also possible that Daddy will be screaming mad.  
But if Dean cleans up well, he’ll never know the circus happened. 

Sam and Dean haven’t left the room in a million years, ever since there was a picture of Dean on the TV. After that, Daddy closed the curtains and parked the car someplace far away. He leaves in the morning-dark and returns at moontime.

Every day, Dean thinks about running back to the hospital with Sam. How far that must be by now, as if every day adds miles, besides the distance they covered in the car.

Besides, the doorknob won’t turn. Stuck is stuck. 

When their bellies get grumbly and the cabinets are empty, they stare at the wall and fill their lungs on the smells of the neighbor’s food. Sometimes, the people on the other side of the wall sing about reindeer. The streets outside the bedroom window are covered in dirty snow piles. 

Dean could scream. Someone will hear. But then what? 

Plus his dad has been nice to him and Sam. Most days, he brings good food like baloney, although sometimes, he forgets and just brings beer. 

Now and then, Dean’s tummy hurts, but he winces and grunts extra loud to stop his daddy from doing the weird, kissy stuff at night. 

Most days, Sam jumps on the bed and writes on the walls. The first time Daddy saw Sam’s art, he shook him. Dean tried to help, but Daddy yelled that he’d get it, too. By the time Daddy stopped being his monster self, Sam was crying and even Dean was snuffling.

What does Daddy expect from Sam? He’s only got the same three books, a flat ball, and a broken fire truck. 

That’s why Dean is building the circus. Because Sam deserves some fun. What if he never goes to the hospital?

So he would be surprised, Dean told Sam to wait in the bedroom. He’s on the other side of the door crying and knocking. Dean rolls his eyes and rushes over. 

“Just wait.”

The blast of poop-air hits him like one of Daddy’s fists.  
Thick, yellow snot is hanging to Sam’s chin. He flicks out his tongue and curls some into his mouth. 

“Yuck. Stop that!”

It’s so smelly in here, Dean wants to run away again. Or flush Sam down the toilet. 

But it’s the same as every day. Dean’s either got to change his diaper or live with the stink.

It’s the one time when he wishes he wasn’t a big brother. As soon as Dean has the diaper off, Sam leaps to his feet and runs cackling around the room. Waving the wet wipe like a surrender flag, Dean chases him into the living room. He grabs Sam around the pudgy belly and cleans.

“Yuck yuck yuck. When will you just learn to use the freaking bathroom?”

There is poop all on Dean’s hands. Daddy calls it shit.

“Look at all this shit, Sam.”

Sam looks, but he’s unimpressed. He waddles between Dean’s tents and stacks cans on the kitchen floor. 

Still fuming and nursing a mental image of suffocating Sam in his own crap, Dean tosses the nasty diaper in the trashcan. Then he uses his chest to push a chair into the kitchen sink. Touching nothing, he climbs up and nearly topples.

With his heart pounding, he washes his hands and continues to create his masterpiece. 

It’s not easy either. It should be, but every time he pulls the blanket into place on one end, it yanks free on the other side. Dean groans and fixes it. Finally, he learns to place something heavy on the fabric to hold it in place. 

While he’s tugging and building, Sam comes to “help,” which means he pulls the whole first tent down and Dean has to start all over from the beginning.

“No, Sam. You can’t help. You’re too little. If you cry I’m not going to do it. Nope, not until you suck it up. I mean it. I’m not moving another muscle until you quit whining.” 

It’s Sammy’s circus, but Dean will not give in. He waits until the sniveling stops.

The truth is, Dean has no idea when his brother’s birthday is. He should know, but he’s lucky to remember his own. Daddy doesn’t remember about birthdays, or Christmas, or anything they had when Mommy was alive. Every day is just driving or hiding out in a stinky, boring room.

But Dean builds the circus so Sam doesn’t forget that there’s a thing called birthdays when everything is colorful, and loud, and there’s cake and singing. There’s fire, too, Dean thinks, though maybe not.  
It’s hard to remember some things.  
He found some matches in his daddy’s drawer and he’s going to try his best to make a fire for Sam. Grand Finale.

Finally, everything is ready. Dean slips into the first tent, a cooking spoon in each hand and a pot between his folded legs. 

“All right, Sammy. You can come in.”

Sam raises the flap and nearly knocks the whole thing down.

“Sheesh. Take it easy, maniac.”

Sam sits and sticks his fingers in his mouth.

“Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls.” Dean grins as he drums. “Welcome, welcome, to the one, the only, Sam Winchester birthday circus!”

Sam pulls those spitty fingers out to clap and squeal. 

The first tent is for music. Dean sings every baby song he can think of, even though he can’t always get the words right. 

Twinkle, twinkle little star.   
How I wonder what you are.  
Up above the world so high  
Up above the world so high… 

Still Sam dances and claps.

When Dean runs out of ideas, he sings Daddy’s song. 

“Baby, when I think about you, I think about love…”

But that song gives Dean tickly insides. Plus, Daddy isn’t at this circus. His songs shouldn’t be here either. 

In the second tent, Dean shows Sam how to do pushups. They make his belly hurt, though. So, he lays on his back and lifts Sam with his feet. That hurts his tummy, too. 

Finally, Dean raises on his knees and holds Sam’s ankles while he does a handstand. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final tent is for the FEAST!”

Sam enters, eyes wide with amazement at Dean’s candy bars, and sweets, and the crowning jewels: jellos with fruit bits.

Sam ought to applaud because it was a magic act sticking those Snickers and the Skittles down his pants the last time they went into a convenience store. He’s appreciative, but he’s also a messmaker. Once Sam eats, food goes everywhere. Somehow, he gets chocolate on the roof of the tent (which is a blanket from Daddy’s bed). 

He scatters Skittles across the carpet. 

It’s not a tragedy until he capsizes his Jell-O. Sam stands there, bottom lip shaking for a full minute before he cries. 

Sam cries so much. That and the poop, Dean hates. And he spills everything. That sucks, too. 

Dean can always steal more Snickers, but they only had the two Jell-Os. There’s no chance of getting more. Dean never should have shared with this big, fat, stupid baby. Should have eaten it all himself. A wave of red, hot, anger fills Dean all the way to his cheeks, but he bites his top lip and keeps the mean words in. 

He waits, breathing hard, until he can swallow the mean. 

“You have to stop crying.”

Eventually, Sam is only sniffing and slurping on his fingers. 

“Now, say please.”

“Freeze.”

Close enough.

Dean peels the foil on his own cup, makes Sam sit so he can’t spill this one, too. He gives his brother the Jell-O and a fresh spoon. Tries with the matches, but nothing happens. They play a few rounds of that card game from Miss Lili.

When the circus is over, Dean scrubs the best he can. There’s still a wide, pink stain in the carpet. His heart beats extra fast every time he looks at it. It’s not like he can run away. The door is locked. There's nowhere to go. And he can’t leave Sam behind. 


	29. Chapter 29

Dumb damn luck landed John this construction job. The guy he’s replacing broke his thumb the day before. He might have exaggerated his experience, but he’s a quick learner. 

Today, the roads are slick with a layer of black ice. What happens the boys if John wraps the car around a lamp pole? He taps the brakes. 

Cruising at 20 MPH, he passes an adult shop he’d never noticed in a rush to get home to Dean. Scantily clad, headless mannequins populate the front window. Nothing in there for him. All he ever needed is at home. 

Most days, John comes in and his baby dragons are cuddled up watching a shark show.   
John knows it’s hard being holed up, but there might still be roadblocks scanning for Dean. The authorities won’t come looking for him in the unwashed armpit of the city.

John paid for cable so the boys can keep busy all day. Also, it’s a long shot, but not impossible that Dean will stumble across some porn and get his little libido kick-started.

They’ve only kissed and cuddled for days. John is like Moses on the mountaintop, viewing the Promised Land. Waiting for his chance to re-enter is Hell.

Today, though, he turns the apartment key and Dean greets with a smile and a cool beer. John narrows his eyes, but cracks it open and slumps into his seat. He stops mid-swallow when Dean kneels and loosens his boots. 

The boy’s fingers don’t provide much pressure, but when Dean massages his instep, John’s dick twitches.

“Is that nice?” Dean asks.

“Why are you being so good?”

He cocks his head, wide-eyed and precious as if he does this every day. 

“Little charmer, aren’t you?” John palms his cheek. “What did you do?”

“I just love you, Daddy.”

“You love me?”

“Mmhm.” Dean rubs on.

“Where’s Sam?”

Dean chews lip and pretends to focus on John’s toes. John removes his foot from Dean’s knee, sits up and holds his chin.

“It was an accident,” Dean murmurs. “My fault.”

“Show me.”

Dean rolls his lips between his teeth. After a deep breath, he walks with his head low, like a man to the gallows. John follows, expecting a broken window or a massive hole in the drywall. Instead, Dean frowns at a pale pink spot amid a sea of carpet stains. Whoever installed a white carpet in this room was clueless or scientifically curious. 

It should be impossible that Dean feels guilty for his minor contribution to the mess, but it’s not impossible. It’s a gift. 

“You did that?”

Dean’s chin remains tucked to his chest.

“And just how’re you going to pay for that?”

He shrugs.

“What do you think you should do?”

“I tried to clean it up,” he whines. “All afternoon.”

“Well, you failed, didn’t you?” It’s harsh, but hey. “What now? What should you do?”

“I guess, go to the manager and -”

“No. I’m paying for the apartment,” John says. “How are you going to make it up to me?”

Dean’s eyes raise. He sighs. “Whatever you want. Just, it’s not Sam’s fault.”

The little martyr.

He wants to suffer. Fine. John smacks him. He’s never hit this son this way. Regret and arousal create a fireball behind his sternum. Dean blinks, eyes wet, cheek reddening. 

“I should make you lick it up.”

Dean nods, breath hitching as he kneels. 

“No.” John catches his chin and makes him look up. “You’re going to pay for it.”

All sorts of ideas dance through John’s head, but this is also a teachable moment. 

“Who do you belong to?”

“You, Daddy.”

“Speak up.”

“You.” Dean tries to lower his head. 

“That’s right. You’re my boy. And if anybody else hits you like that, or tries to put his hands on you, take their heads off, just like you did Duckett.”

Dean swallows beneath John’s palm. 

He lets the boy go, directs him to stand with his feet shoulder-width apart. This isn’t the first time he’s instructed Dean how to use his dukes. The boy is already a scrappy spar partner. It’s been a while since John has shown him anything new. 

“Jab.”

No hesitation. A solid blow for his weight class.

“Jab…Left hook… Right uppercut… Left roundhouse…”

John taps the side of his head. Dean skids sideways. Never saw it coming. He takes a deep breath, adjusts his stance and begins again. He takes another unanticipated hit, but the third time, he blocks. 

They boogie for an hour before Dean clutches his belly and groans. 

“All right.” John claps his shoulder. “Not bad.”

It could be a ploy but it’s not worth the risk. Still breathing hard, Dean starts to leave the room. 

“Where are you going?”

John has been so good for days. Has hardly touched the boy. He’s earned this. 

He stands, slips off his pants and takes his seat. Pulls Dean closer by his little hands. Dean said whatever he wants, but the boy doesn’t mean that. John wants everything all at once. He already knows what he’ll take tonight.  

Holding Dean’s wrists, he guides those soft fingers up and down the hairs on his thighs. Pass by pass, John’s nerves flick awake until his entire body is lit up like a firecracker. His breathing low and slow. 

Finally, he presses Dean’s left hand to the fabric over his hard dick. Then, he lets go.  

Dean looks up at his father’s eyes but doesn’t move his hand. The other rests on John’s leg. 

“Take me out.”

Dean carefully draws down the elastic until John’s cock pops free. If he could, John would feast on the fear in Dean’s eyes. 

“Pet it.”

Dean’s fingers bounce lightly on the head, as if he’s stroking a household lizard.

John molds one hand as far around his shaft as it’ll go and uses the other to caress the tip. It’s heaven. His mouth falls open and his hips lift into the cautious touch.

It would be a shame to tamper with Dean’s timid strokes, so John clasps his hands behind the chair and accepts what the child gives. Dean sets an excruciatingly slow pace and a brutally sweet intensity. A perfectionist’s dedication to his task. 

When the want becomes too intense, John thrusts up between the little fingers. Five minutes, fifteen, twenty pass with John’s painfully stiff cock raging purple between tiny, pale hands. The sweetest torture as he teeters on the edge of climax. 

“God, baby, you’re amazing. You know that? You’re fucking—” Language. “You are Daddy’s angel, Dean.”

Dean smiles and his grip tightens. He strips one hand, then the other down the shaft, over and over, his passes lubricated by a steady drip of pre-cum. 

“When it spits, right, Daddy?”

“What’s that, baby?”

“Then it feels really good? When I make it spit.”

“You mean when you make me come?”

Dean nods.

“Say that.”

“When I make you come?”

John nearly does blow at the filth spilling from his son’s holy, little mouth.

“You remember that, huh? You like to make your daddy feel good?”

Dean nods again and John’s chest flares bright.

“Use your words.”

“Yes, Daddy.” Dean bites his lip as if he’s been trained to drive John insane with sexy cuteness. “I like to make you feel good.”

“Oh, God.”

John grabs the back of Dean’s head and shoves his face close enough to make him take it. But he made a promise. In Dean’s time.  
   
“Do you want to suck it, Dean?”

“No, Daddy. It’s too big,” he says. “Hurts my mouth.”

“Just the tip. See? Stick out your tongue.”

Dean shakes his head. John summons super-human restraint not to force him. Everything in time. Everything.

“It’s okay. You’re doing great, honey.”

John guides Dean’s hands and together, they stroke him to completion. Then he feeds him every drop on the tips of his fingers. Dean’s nose turns up in distaste, but a good boy swallows his daddy’s seed. 


	30. Chapter 30

The engine is still running when Dean throws himself from the car and slip-slides across the icy pavement. Daddy yells after him to close the door, but he’s flying and doesn’t even hear it.  Three steps in, he slips and falls on his butt. He scrambles to his feet and runs on as if it never happened. His first destination: the slide. 

Daddy opens the back door. Sam sits in his wide, safe backseat and watches. 

“Go play.”

It’s been forever since they were free of the apartment. Sam hasn’t learned to count time, but he can sense days, weeks, a month creep by. It could be fun to run and slide like Dean. Sam could also get hurt. Any one of those big kids might push or hit him. 

“Get out,” Daddy says. “Your brother begged.”

By the time Sam’s toes touch the crunchy mulch, Dean has found some other strange children. Sam sticks his fingers in his mouth, sniffs at the dirt smell. Watching is good and safe.

Daddy sits on a bench and lights a cigarette. He shouts at Dean. “Hey. You cool it. Not so much running.”

Breathing hard and clutching his belly, Dean leads his wild gang to Sam who stops drops his fingers and freezes solid as an ice cube. 

“Hey, buddy. You want me to help you climb that ladder?”

Sam shakes his head. 

“What do you want to play?”

Sam shakes his head again. He doesn’t want to play. He wants to go back in the car, back to the safe, quiet apartment, where he knows what’s going to happen next. 

A little girl shoves Dean and he nearly topples over. 

“You’re It!” 

Dean’s the wrong tiger cub to mess with. He growls and gives chase. It’s exactly the kind of game Sam wants to avoid. While no one watches, he waddles to the Sam-sized playhouse, picking up an old band-aid on the way. It’s got blood on it and although it doesn’t taste too good, it’s chewy, so that’s nice.

It’s too cold out there anyway and Sam’s thrift store coat doesn’t cut the wind. He is merrily building a mulch mountain in the playhouse when someone knocks on the playhouse door. His spine goes rigid again, eyes wide, ready for tears.

Dean ducks to smile through the window. “Hey! No fair. Who gave you gum?”

When Sam shows what he’s chewing, Dean peels it from between his teeth and tosses it. 

“That’s disgusting, Sam. Yuck!” He sits on the wood chips, shaking his head, weary with outrage. “I wanted to show you something, but sheesh.”

Sam wants to see something, so he waits. Dean rubs his hands together, blowing between them. Then, he reaches into his pocket to reveal a tiny, white stone in the palm of his hand. It’s spiky and red on one end and Dean looks almost scared of it. He glances over his shoulder. 

“It just fell out,” he says. “Don’t tell Daddy.” 

Daddy doesn’t understand most of what Sam says anyway. Dean’s secret is safe. 

 

***

John had saved for five years to afford the down payment on the Lawrence house. He’d started his little family, his good life, there. Settled down and let his roots disperse into the earth. Tonight, he lays in a drafty, roach-infested apartment. Two of the three cooking pots in the place are catching leaks from the bathroom ceiling whenever from the upstairs neighbor flushes their toilet. 

The mighty has taken quite a fall, but his life has never been better than waking to sweet, little fingers scruffling his beard. A soft kiss lands on John’s cheek like a rare butterfly. Next, Dean angles up to smooch his ear. John’s groan announces that he’s awake and appreciative. He curves an arm around his son’s tiny waist and draws him closer, letting out a sleep-rough, “Hey.”

“Did I wake you up, Daddy?”

This boy knows full well that he woke his father. If John was inclined to mind, that changes the moment Dean’s tongue slides between his lips and flicks over his teeth. His small fingers curl in John’s hair. If it was sexy when his little boy was inept, his growing skill and interest in kissing drive John out of his overheated skin. 

He gets hard just thinking about getting back to that busy little mouth at the end of a workday. Sometimes, he’ll be on the site with a grin so wide and goofy that the other guys make fun of him. John couldn’t care less. If they knew the love and affection in his life, they’d be whistling love songs, too.

“You’re feeling friendly tonight.”  
   
“Do you like it?” Dean asks.

“I like everything with you.”

Small, soft feet fondle John’s cock through his shorts.

“Whoa. Careful, buddy.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I don’t mean stop.” John pulls them back in place. “I mean, be careful. Don’t kick me.”

It was the right choice to stop running for a while. This apartment ain’t paradise, but the routine is doing the boys good. Dean always has bologna sandwiches and beer on the table after work. The boy bathes his younger brother and gets him to bed. The only thing that would complete life would be to consummate with his sweetheart. His pretty lil housewife.

John will fuck Dean again. All in time.

For now, they make out like a pair of feverish teens, John resigning himself to Dean’s pace. They share a bed and swap spit and sweat and Dean watches John jack off.   
Tonight’s sweet seduction is new, though. John smiles and basks in his son’s curious attention - Dean pecking his ear with a sweet arm curled under his chin.

“I love you so much, baby.”

“I love you, too, Daddy.”

“Do you?”

“Of course.”

“Will you suck my tongue?” 

Dean always performs this task eagerly. Between the slurping and moaning and the tiny toes pedaling his dick, John’s self-control is slipping. Dean’s hips thrust against his chest. John growls between his teeth. 

That’s when he feels it. How did he miss it before? How long has it been gone? He captures Dean’s face between his hands and studies. 

“Say EE.”

Dean says it but doesn’t show. John peels back his upper lip, then the lower one. There it is, an adorable gap in the gum - lower left incisor. 

“When did this happen?”

Dean’s eyes grow wide. He rolls in his lips, hiding them like he always does when he’s scared. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? What are you sorry for?”

“I didn’t mean to make it fall out.”

He’s not kidding. Does Dean seriously not know about the tooth fairy? Then again, how would he know if John’s never mentioned it? It’s not like Dean spends a lot of time around other kids. Today was the first time he’s been to a playground since the hospital. John can’t remember when before that. 

“So, where is it?”

Pursed lips: Dean has entered spy mode. John won’t be able to waterboard the answer out of him. 

“You tell me where your tooth is, I’ll tell you something special.”

The boy hesitates, then confesses: “I buried it in Sam’s house.”

“Sam’s house? At the playground?” John squints. “Why would you do that?”

Dean shrugs. So much for the tooth fairy lesson.   
Then again, maybe not.   
John rolls off the bed and grabs a sheet of paper and pen.

“We’re going to write a letter to the tooth fairy,” he says. “Tell her what happened. Maybe she’ll bring you something anyway.”

Seeing that Dean is still confused and slightly worried, John explains the myth.

“So, a lady is going to come to our house and bring me something because I lost my tooth?”

“That’s the idea.”

“She got wings?”

“Well, yeah, probably.” 

“Are you going to kill her?”

“Um… No.” John pats Dean’s leg. “She’s one of the good ones.”

“How can you tell which ones are the good ones?”

“Because they’re on our side.”

John scribbles a note, reads it to Dean who approves and struggles to scratch his name along the bottom. John’s got to work with him. Six year-old ought to be able to write his name. 

With the page folded and under Dean’s pillow, John knocks him onto his back. He shoves three fingers into his son’s mouth. Dean gasps and gags.

“Don’t fight.” John pins one of his shoulders and waits for Dean to meet his eye.

Once he relaxes, the boy sucks with the same gusto he’d done his daddy’s tongue, slurping along the bottom like a greedy fish. Sending John’s want through the leaky roof. 

“Oh, you little…”

Be careful Daddy-mouth what you say.

John tugs off Dean’s undies, turns him onto his side and slides the moistened fingers between his crack. Dean tenses, but doesn’t fight. It’s only when John’s middle fingertip is about to breach his hole that he whispershouts, “Daddy, not that. Please.”

If John had only been more careful before, they’d be fucking every night. So much ground lost in one foolish moment. Dean doesn’t even want the plugs anymore. John hates denying himself, but he honors his boy. Eyes shut, he drops his face onto Dean’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” Dean kisses his forehead. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”  
   
“It’s okay, baby. When you’re ready.”

“Daddy, I need to ask you something.”

John kisses his collarbone. “Anything, angel.”

“Anything?”

“Within reason.” He licks a path up Dean’s ribs into his fuzzysoft armpit. 

“Is it within reason for Sam to go to school? Please.”

When John doesn’t reply, Dean continues,   
   
“He’s never really been around other kids. I think it would be good for him. And he’d be sleepier at night, and I could, you know, make you come more.”

That’s what this was all about. This manipulative, little bastard. John could wring his neck for the deception. That would be fair. Or he could bash Sam’s skull in. Sam is the only thing that ever comes between them. 

But Dean’s not wrong. 

Sam ran and hid at the playground. He’s awkward and fearful while Dean fearlessly flirts with the world. Dean has inherited so much of his old man’s charisma that there’s none left over for the little one. Pre-school might help. That had crossed John’s mind. And there’s one on the way to his current job site.   
Maybe. 

But first, a lesson for Dean. 

“Just Sam?” John asks.

“I mean … I would go, too. If you want.”

A boy like Dean thrives around other boys to compete with, and girls to turn on. Not yet. Not at six, but he’s got his father’s makings. To cultivate his best traits, he’s got to get out in the world and throw his elbows around. The more people he meets, the greater the chances he’ll say the wrong thing.

“I’ll think about it.”  
   
Dean nods. “Thank you, Daddy.”

How would it be if Dean called him John at night? Possibly sexy, but too risky. Plus, Daddy is sweet. 

“I’ll think about it. And you know when I do my best thinking, Dean? When I have something to fuck.”

Language. 

Dean’s eyes are big and round and beautiful and John will have him tonight. He works too hard, loves too deep not to get what he wants.

Silent, good boy, Dean lies on his back. When he’s told, he licks John’s palm. It’s not much lubrication, so John adds his own spit to the mix and slicks his cock. He’s already stone hard before the terrified tremble takes over Dean’s body.

“So hot, my toothless little baby.”

Supporting the bulk of his weight on one elbow, John presses Dean’s leg together. He aims between the slim thighs. Molten heat coursing through his body, John shudders, so close already. He stills, panting, willing himself not to come yet. Dean’s head is smothered beneath his chest. So tiny and perfect. 

“Cross your ankles, Dean. Yeah, like that. Squeeze them together. Oh, fuck.”  
   
Dean whimpers.

“Grab my ass. That’s it. You fucking little…”

Teeny fingers clutching. With the pressure so sweet and Dean doing his best to please, John pounds his thighs and comes with a loud shout. He collapses and lays there until Dean writhes. Beats his back, probably can’t breathe. John smiles. Lets him suffer a moment longer before he rolls aside.

Dean gasps. “Was that good, Daddy?”

“That was real good, son,” John says, still winded, too. “Go get a rag so we can clean up.”

Dean rolls onto the floor and freezes. Sam is sitting up in his bed, sucking his fingers. Watching.


	31. Chapter 31

Spring is in the air  
Everywhere I look around…

Once again, the hombres are laughing at John, el Romantico. Carlos pokes him with the blunt end of his hammer and calls him Romeo. Jorge shouts something, but John speaks just enough Spanish to get a beer and find the can after he’s had one.

Smiling, Hector translates, “He wants you to sing it again.”

They’re always trying to get John to sing, and it isn’t because his voice is great. It’s so they can fuel their running joke about the pussy that waits at home for a man who’s always singing. The jokes are John’s fault. He gets into his work. His mind wanders to his boy and inevitably, without permission from his brain, his mouth croons their song.

The hombres have been insisting on pictures. John’s got one of Mary stashed somewhere. A pretty blonde would surely make them howl. But he doesn’t want to pretend it’s her. That would be disrespectful to Dean. So, for the benefit of his audience, John throws back his head and wails, “I feel like making love.”

They scream with laughter until the boss hollers for them to knock it off and focus. 

“I feel like making love.” John’s singing under his breath. 

Hector chuckles. “You funny, man.”

John’s over the moon in love, that’s all. 

His phone rings mid-swing. He lets the hammer strike the nail all the way home before taking it from his pocket and flipping it open. An unfamiliar voice asks if he’s speaking with John Dupree. 

“What can I do for you?”

“Well, we’ve got your son down here at the Piggly Wiggly.”

“I’ll be right there.”

If the foreman hadn’t let him go, John would’ve ditched the job. 

It’s plenty warm enough not to bother with the jacket. He makes the grocery store in five minutes by conveniently overlooking traffic lights, signs and laws. Boots splash through the parking lot puddles. John dashes through the store rows calling Dean’s name. 

A woman’s voice rings out broadcasting a request for help in the checkout line. She cuts out and the muzak pipes in again. Finally, a skinny man in an apron meets John in the produce aisle. 

“Dupree?”

John nods and follows him into a storage room. Dean waits at a table, studying his hands, looking every bit as guilty as they say. When he notices John, he leaps down and runs to him. Always hyper-conscious of his posture toward Dean in public, he holds the boy away by his shoulders. Flicks his wet hair from his face.

“What’s going on here? You get rained on?”

Dean and the clerk both talk. John looks between his son and the man. The typical thing is to defer to the adult’s accusation when all he cares is that this string-bean asshole didn’t touch his boy. 

“Well, you can ask him,” the man says.

John kneels in front of Dean, loading all his meaning into the words, “Are you okay?”

Dean nods.

“It’s not exactly a common sight to see a six-year-old without a parent, usually the mother,” the skinny man says, beady eyes rolling over John’s face and tattered work clothes.

John would merrily choke him, but too many witnesses. He stands and nods, casting a serious, concerned demeanor.

“He’s seven, actually.”

Dean’s eyes go wide, like it’s a revelation to him. He’s wise enough not to say so.

“That ain’t what he said. I’ll tell you what. Ira was the one noticed how he was walking. So I went right up, had him turn out his pockets. Look what all was stuffed down his pants.”

John expects a stick of gum there’s a pack of hamburger rolls, turkey meat and a bottle of mustard.

Dean explains. “I just wanted to make something special for dinner.”

“Let me guess,” John blurts, inappropriately annoyed. “For Sam?”

“For you,” Dean says, his eyes ten different shades of remorseful. “Sam doesn’t like mustard.”

John wants to kiss him right now and tell him it’s okay. 

“I brought all my tooth money, but I wasn’t sure it would be enough. Remember, you kept calling me a turkey,” Dean says. “I thought it would be funny if—”

“Okay.” John stops him before the story veers into the details of when he’d made that joke. He’d been tickle torturing Dean, after which he licked every strip of skin he’d touched. “How much do I owe you?”

“I’m sure you know it ain’t about the money.”

John nods, anxiety creeping up his spine like an army of carpenter ants. He doesn’t want to kill this guy, but he will. And take Dean and run. 

“Listen, he must have slipped away from his babysitter,” John says. “Is that what happened?”

Dean knows better than to contradict. He nods. 

“See, he’s a regular livewire, this one.”

“What’s he doing with a babysitter and not in school?”

That’s a good question, Harold. John finally notices the name on his tag.   
Dean Winchester, AKA Dean Dupree, is not in school because his father is terrified of eventualities like this one. Dean in school means Dean talking to people all the livelong day. It means people looking at Dean. It means uncontrollable variables. 

“He’s homeschooled.”

“Must can’t read too good,” Harold counters. “Going around, asking everybody which one is turkey. Looks like your ‘homeschooling’ at that great there, Dupree.”

The punch is a reflex. It never should have happened. Harold hunches over his belly. John slams ten bucks onto the table, gathers up the food and pushes his boy out of the door. 

“Mind your fucking business, asshole.”

It was stupid. Unnecessary attention and they’re going to have to run again. He’ll pull Sam right out of school and roll. Damn shame. John was getting to like this town, but it’s his own fault. He’s stopped locking the door. Was sure he could trust Dean to behave.  
Wrong.

Once everything is packed in the car, John sighs and sits on the sofa.

“Come here, boy.”

Dean stands before him, head bowed, hands clasped like a choirboy. Ain’t working today. 

“I got to work,” John says. “You understand that? And I can’t be worrying about you all day. I got to focus on what I’m doing. You want somebody to take you away? Is that what you want?”

Dean shakes his head. 

“Well, that’s what’s going to happen. You keep up these shenanigans. You go out and steal things, somebody will call the cops and they’re going to put you in baby jail. Is that where you want to be?”

Again, the silent head shake.

“All right.” John sighs. “Pull down your pants.”

He hates to do it. Sucks being the big, hairy, bad guy, but Dean has to learn. John lays the boy over his knees and slaps. Not a soft, sexy spanking, but real, solid whacks on his hind parts and the backs of his thighs. 

Dean tenses, but doesn’t cry. He doesn’t beg for mercy. Doesn’t recoil. Not even when his skin is strawberry red. John loses count. He increases the intensity until Dean gasps and puts his hand in the way of John’s next strike. When the boy stands, legs jellied and trembling, he covers his prick with both hands.

John pulls them away, revealing a stone-solid erection. 

“I’ll be damned. You little…”

John sinks to the floor in praise to this filthy godling. 

“Fuck my face.” 

Far from a mouthful. John’s pointer finger is bigger. But Dean pistons like mad, panting and gripping his father’s hair in both fists. He humps like a horny puppy, so consumed by his thrusting that he doesn’t react to John’s finger sliding into the side of his mouth to harvest some spit. Dean doesn’t even flinch when that same finger sneaks toward his little hole. 

When John slips in the tip, Dean stops and looks down at his father. He peeks back over his shoulder and then resumes his frantic pumping. 

Tight as a vice. Oh, and it’s toasty in there. John smiles around his son’s dick-let as little by little, he presses deeper. Dean balks at every centimeter. He whimpers, “Daddy.”   
But he doesn’t say stop.

“Keep going, baby.”

Dean fucks a little, fusses a little, while John urges that finger further. He’s been inside of Dean before: fingers, tongue. He’s come apart in here. But Dean is, at once virginal and familiar, like coming home after a long battle. 

With Dean still in his mouth, John delves deeper, fingertip brushing dry matter. No matter. He slides out a bit and back in. The way Dean moans, John has to see his face to know whether it’s bliss or agony. The boy’s head is tilted back, like a Pez dispenser. 

John drags the finger in and out, playing Dean like a violin. A long, low moan on the press, a ragged inhalation accompanies each pull.

“Is that good?”

Dean looks down and John wipes the tears from his face with his clean hand. The other strives for that sound again. John slips out completely and Dean winces. It’s only for a moment. Daddy needs to wet it again, in his own mouth. The taste of his boy - dirty and sweet. 

This time when the finger returns with its nearest neighbor, Dean leans forward over his father’s head, granting access. John slaps his ass and gives it to him, nice and slow. In return, Dean wails.

“Do you like that, Dean?”

The boy hangs over John’s shoulder now, arms dangling to the floor. John rubs one of his legs while he fingerfucks him. His own weeping erection, ignored. Reveling in Dean’s loud, languid pleasure. Until another idea occurs to him. 

John stands with Dean draped over his shoulder. First, he sits his frowning boy on the toilet. 

“I need you to make that poop.”

“I need your finger in me.” 

John smiles and licks his lips. There’s no way Dean knows how sexy he is: sitting on the can, talking like a hooker. His little prick pointing heavenward. Dean squirms, wraps a hand around his dick and pouts.

“Make your shit, you little slut.”

Dean’s eyes darken. He puts on his grumpy face, possibly remembering the last time he spoke that word. The unfortunate incident with the doctor. But that sort of thing doesn’t have to happen again, now that Dean knows better.

John kneels in front of him. 

“This is our private time, Dean. What we say and do, other people won’t understand.”

“Why?”

“Because…” How to put this honestly and simply? “They think it’s wrong.”  

“Is it wrong?”

“Does it feel wrong?”

Dean shrugs. 

“Ask yourself whether it feels wrong when Daddy’s finger is inside you. How did it feel?”

Dean blinks. 

“It felt good, didn’t it? Felt good to me, too.” John pats his cheek. “Everything we do together feels good to me. And it’s not wrong. But other people don’t get that.”

“Why, Daddy?”

“It’s hard to explain, baby.” It’s impossible to explain. 

John has never understood why it hurts anybody for a little boy to have a loving, caring adult teacher. We send them to school to learn everything else. 

For the longest time, he’d kept away from potential partners because of their parents. Because he knew they’d see John as a fiend. That they’d want him behind bars and on a registry because they didn’t understand. 

John had even agreed with them. Believed that his desires are dark or wrong. A curse. An affliction. But now that he’s a parent, he knows the priceless gift he’s giving his son: understanding his body, appreciating its pleasure. The treasure of affection and tenderness, of exploration and connection.   
And Dean is giving John the gift of himself.

He cups the boy’s precious face and says, “It’s because they’re jealous and small-minded.”

As they kiss, the boy farts into the toilet and laughs into his father’s mouth.

“Piglet.”

John tickles him and there comes the poop. Dean laughs even more at that. 

When he’s all finished, John sits on the commode, wipes Dean clean and pats his butt.

“Wait for me on the bed.”

John washes his hands and grabs the Vaseline from the medicine cabinet. 

He didn’t know when these would become useful again, but he brought them along with a few other items from the Reverend’s stash. Six plugs of various sizes, all black. The biggest no longer than his middle finger and about half the girth of his cock. They’ll do nicely.

“What are those, Daddy?”

“Present for you.”

Dean picks up the smallest one. “What do I do with them?”

“You put this one in your mouth.” John slides it between Dean’s lips, thickening from the boy’s constant eye contact, his face upturned, asking for approval. “That’s right, Dean. Just get it nice and wet for me.”

John turns him over, flat on his belly. Dean’s spit made the plug glisten, but a glob of Vaseline is the right consistency for the job. Dean hisses and giggles at the cold surprise. He took that finger so well, and loosened himself with the bowel movement. This time, when John slides his finger in, it’s a slice of cherry pie. Dean pushes back for more. 

“God, you love it, don’t you?”

“Feels good.”

John gives him two. Dean tenses for a moment and then stretches his arms above his head to see if he can touch the headboard. 

“How’s that feel?”

“It’s good, Daddy.” He humps the bed. “Make it go in and out.”

John gives him exactly what he wants. There’s no way he could keep from stroking himself at the same time. It’s the most sensual moment he’s ever experienced. Even moreso than the first time he entered Dean, who’d been screaming or unconscious for most of it. Hot as that was, this is better. 

John crawls up behind his son. The boy is so greedy for it. Dean glances over his shoulder but makes no protest when John angles his cock between his cheeks. 

“Hold yourself open for me.”

“Like this?”

“No. Like this.”

A hand on each cheek, fingers splayed inward. His hole is a shiny pink o, clenching and releasing as Dean plays with his own muscles. 

“You teasing me?”

“Hm?”

“What you’re doing with your ass.” John slides a generous portion of Vaseline onto himself. “It’s making me want you more.”

Dean turns his head with the most wicked, seductive grin. Where on earth does a child learn to make a face like that?

“You’re a slut, Dean. Say it.”

“I’m a slut, Daddy.”

“Yes, you are. Now hold yourself wide open for me.”

Burning, dick pulsing, John climbs into position, propped on one hand while he presses the tip to the bull’s eye. He’s going to blow soon. He wants to cross the threshold, coat Dean’s insides tonight. The boy is so ready. Everything is right. 

As he presses, Dean hums. A low, needy sound at first, but it quickly becomes a fearful gasp, his fists curling in the sheets. John hasn’t even sunken in the tip. Dean has opened as far as he’ll go and it isn’t enough. John’s not going to fit.

Oh, he could punch his way in and wreck everything again. But that’s not what he wants. It needs to be good for Dean, too. So good that the little whore begs for it again tomorrow.

So, with a heavy heart, John retreats. He releases his dick and slides the fourth biggest plug into his son instead. Dean flinches but takes it. With John’s permission, he rolls onto his back, touching the end of the plug. 

“Did you come, Daddy?”

“No, baby. Not this time.”

As if he’s been ordered, Dean bounces up and crawls over. He touches and then pulls away with a disgusted look. 

“It’s all sticky.”

“It’s nice,” John says and shows him the petroleum jelly. “Makes it feel even better.” 

Dean still appears skeptical, but he shifts positions, lets his legs dangle over the side of the bed while he applies both hands to the ever-more skillful stroking of his father’s cock.   
   
“I’m going to make you come fast,” he promises.

“Show me.”

His fingers aren’t big or strong enough to squeeze too hard. Still, John holds the base for him, to keep the cock steady while the boy races against time, grinning like it’s a video game. Sure enough, he makes his daddy come super fast and hard enough to shower his chest and even get a bit on his chin. 

“Whoa,” Dean flinches from the spray. “Was that really good?”

“That was amazing,” John says, holding Dean’s hands in place so he can glide through the aftershocks. “You are fucking amazing, boy.”

He offers Dean the jizz from his chin on the tip of his middle finger. At first, Dean bites his lip. Then, he raises his coquettish eyes and the pink tip of his tongue sticks out. Right away, his expression devolves into disgust. John can’t help but laugh as he lets it dribble back down his chin and chest. 

“One day you’ll like it.”

Dean shakes his head. “Never.”

“One day, you’ll drink it because you love me.”

Dean blinks, chews his lip, pretty as a picture of paradise. He slides a finger across his chest, sniffs the bit of cum he finds there. Turns up his nose at the odor, but then he sticks it in his mouth, searching his daddy’s eyes for approval. 


	32. Chapter 32

John’s grasping at a few winks when a scream penetrates his dream. Even before his eyes snap open, he reaches for the weapon under his pillow. His heart is slamming against his ribs, sharp senses in kill-mode. Beside him, Dean is covering his face. 

“What the hell?”

The boy’s skin is sweat-coated. He’s trembling. 

Is it pain? The belly? A ripped stitch? Those things should be healed by now. Gingerly, John palms his tummy, watching for any reaction.

“Baby, what is wrong?”

He pulls Dean’s reluctant hands down and the boy’s eyes remain squeezed shut. 

“No no no. Please, no.”

“Dean, open your eyes. Look at me.”

Dean shakes his head. Resists John’s attempts to peel up his eyelids. 

“Goddamit, boy. What is wrong with you?”  
   
One eye cracks and Dean screams again, sitting up to bury his face in John’s chest. John checks over his shoulder. Scans the room. Nothing to fear but darkness.   
Dean’s not afraid of the dark.

Sam is sitting up in his bed, sucking his thumb. Staring eyes black in the unlit room.

“It’s a dream, son. Just a dream. Go back to sleep.”

“Daddy, no. Please don’t let him.” Dean leans away from the side of the bed, pressing closer to John as if he could crawl into his dad’s skin. 

He bats at the air. 

“Dean, what the hell?”

“Please don’t let him touch me. Don’t let him take me. I’ll be good. I promise.”

“Let who?”

Dean wails and his body jerks out of John’s arms and lands with a loud thud on the floor. 

A tiny cloud puffs from Dean’s mouth as he gawks at the space between them. He whimpers. His body stretches out long on the floor and slides toward the door. An invisible force drags him by his fingertips.

“DADDY!!!”

John leaps to his feet with his pistol in hand, fires into the air. Dean stops sliding, but he doesn’t stop screaming even after John lifts him onto his hip.

“Sh. Quiet. Where is it? Do you see it?”

Dean points. John fires. Dean cowers and covers his ears.

“There.”

Bullets don’t stop these things. He’s got to make a move that means something. 

“Duckett?”

Dean nods and hides in John’s neck.

No ghost yesterday. Ghost today.

Immediately, John knows what’s different. Where the old man’s spirit is tethered. He sits on the sofa, bends Dean’s naked body over his lap and carefully plucks out the plug.

“Better?”

“Sammy.”

Sam is standing at the bedroom door, sucking his fingers. John sets Dean on his feet beside his brother and collects everything that belonged to the Reverend in a plastic bag. It was foolish to think he could use them. 

The boys follow close behind while John dumps the bag into a steel trashcan behind the building. He douses it with rum and sets it on fire. The wind howls around them, too fierce to be mere nature. A sudden rush of frigidity on the early summer night passes as quickly as it struck. 

John lifts Dean and whispers, “Is he gone?”

“Think so.”

“God. I’m so sorry,” John squeezes him close. “It’s okay. You’re safe now, Dean. I got you.” 

The neighbor dog barks. John nuzzles his boy, holding his quivering, naked body close. Sam watches the flames rise as sirens howl around the corner.

There’s no time to get back inside. John has to face the cops head-on. Explain that Dean was in the bath when a rat popped its head out of the toilet. That explains the gunshots (sort of) and the fire. 

“Y’all get it together back here,” the older office says. “And quit acting crazy. It’s damn near 3 in the morning.”r

“Yessir.”

They fill out their report. As they’re leaving, the other one mutters, “Rednecks.”

 

***

 

John couldn’t care less about cops. Cops are mortal. He can’t ignore supernatural visitations.   
Although he’d planned to tuck and run, John brings their few belongings back in from the trunk. They’re conspicuous now, but that can be a good thing. Hiding in plain sight. If John is known as the late-night-shooter who doesn’t send his boy to school, that’s his claim to fame. Nobody’ll suspect anything else.

Monday night, John’s day off, he prepares the one warm meal the boy’s’ll have this week: Kraft Mac n’ cheese with limp, yellowing broccoli. They don’t complain.

After dinner, Sam sits on the floor stacking popsicle sticks while John slumps on the couch with his beer in hand. Dean crawls into his lap and John gives him the same treatment as the last two days since Duckett’s appearance: a firm palm in the center of his back.

“Uh-uh.”

“Daddy?”

John gives a solid shove and the boy lands on his ass. He scuttles onto the corner of the sofa, his face a few inches from John’s hand. Dean rubs his face against the thumb. John yanks away like he’s poison ivy. 

A decision is a decision. Dean is sleeping in the bed with Sam. He’s staying the hell out of John’s lap. 

John barely even looks at him. He sits where he is, chest tight and burning, ignoring Dean’s hurt, confused expression. His third beer drained, John pretends to watch the game. Sends his sons to bed at 6PM, daring them to make a single fucking peep. 

Tears flow as he beats off in front of the TV, sogging up his stubble. Everything his mind and body needs is close enough to swallow. Too far to be fair.

This is happening because he lost focus. When was the last time John even thought about that demon? He’s been living in Dean’s mouth, between Dean’s hands and thighs. Caught up in daydreams of Dean’s bubblegum-pink asshole. 

Shit. 

John jizzes all over himself. Wipes his hand on a sofa pillow. Staggers, exhausted and half-drunk to the bedroom door. 

Dean is asleep, facing away. One pale arm hangs off the far side of the bed, the other slung over his brother. As John creeps closer, even in the dark, he can tell that Sam’s eyes are wide open. He halts and growls, “Go to sleep.”

In his journal, John simply writes: It’s over.


	33. Chapter 33

The hombres don’t laugh with John anymore. They don’t even talk to him, ever since the day he shoved Hector against the wall for dropping a drywall screw. He hadn’t meant to go off on the guy. Just like he didn’t mean to knock Dean across the room for prancing around in his underwear. 

It was an asshole move, but what is John supposed to do?  
Get up and hunt again. Find the demon. Looking for Yellow-Eyes would keep him occupied. Idle hands, and all that. 

The last few days, before he went home and got fall-down drunk, he cruised past a couple of playgrounds. All the kids were the wrong age, wrong temperament or just plain wrong. Not every little boy fuels a fantasy.

On the way home today, John passes the Lotus Bloom. Turns left at Post Drive, circles the neighborhood until he’s back in the parking lot, staring at the headless dummies in their lingerie. It’s another few minutes before he cuts the engine.

Walking to the door is like wading through the jungle. This heatwave is a bitch and Wyoming ain’t prepared for these temperatures. Nobody’s got A/C. His car’s vents cool it down to a crisp 85.

Already sweating, John steps into the steamy store under the chime of an electronic bell. The scent of artificial strawberry and vinyl thickens the air. The walls are painted black. Lights low. Soft jazz hums through the speakers, giving the whole place the feel of a 70s porno.

Behind the counter, a busty blonde in her fifties is dressed like a twenty-year-old hooker. Somebody’s wildest dream, all dried up.

Dolly smiles. “Heya, handsome. Hot enough?”

Hellish is what it is. Heat index over a hundred in the shade. It’s hotter indoors.

“Lemme know if I can help with anything at all.”

Maybe if hers was the last warm hole on earth.

John is one of three men, sliding between the partitions, grazing the titles. Picking up VHS boxes. Finding nothing remotely interesting. With a little imagination, barely-legal Asian girls on big black cocks could be halfway okay, but is it worth $25?

“Hey, soldier.”

It’s Old Woman Time at his elbow. She’s lucky John has control of his reflexes or he’d have punched her in the face. 

“Don’t know if you saw our area for customers with specialized tastes.”

She points to a black velvet curtain over which a sign reads: Kinky Korner. John turns up his nose and shakes his head, at the goofy second K. She smiles, offering that help again. Anytime. 

After another twenty minutes of disappointment, John bites the damn bullet and enters the Korner. He comes face to face with a knight’s armor. Directly behind it, the entire wall is lined with implements the Reverend Duckett could name. Most of them belong in a medieval dungeon. 

John glances over his shoulder and moves closer. Whips, chains, cuffs. He’d thought of cuffing Dean. God, how hot would that be? He’s semi-hard thinking about it. 

Another check that no one’s watching and John takes a cane from its wall hook. It’s lighter than it looks. Dean would get hard as stone from the first whack. There’s a soft, black, leather harness, as well. Far too big, for now.

Smaller items are on the lower shelf, including variety packs of jeweled anal plugs. John picks up two sets in different sizes: all black with emerald knobs to match his true love’s eyes. 

There’s a table along the back with brochures. Shirtless men embracing. The next is about something called BDSM, “everything you wanted to know.” The faceless man on the front towers over a bound and kneeling woman. He brandishes a whip. John takes one of those. 

He slides right past the pamphlet about beastiality, eyes flicking nervously over the one featuring a boy, almost cute as Dean, on the cover. This child is a good deal older. Maybe 11.

John’s pulse jumps and he glances over his shoulders again. Did anyone see him looking at that?

North American Man/Boy Love Association?

That can’t be a real thing. Nobody is stupid enough to even touch the paper. It ought to be called FBI Rounding Up Stupid Pedophiles Association. 

There’s only one person he can share his appetites with and he’s lucky to have him. Blessed. Most of the stiffs in this place are suffering their want alone. It doesn’t have to be that way for John. Duckett’s ghost was a fluke or a warning not to repeat the old man’s mistakes. 

John will never hurt Dean. All he wants it to give his son a deep, abiding love.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, he abandons the korner and takes his selected purchases to the register where Dolly is flipping through a magazine.

“Both of these, huh?” She surveys the packages. “I’m only asking because you may not need both. Is your sweetheart more of a husky or petite girl?”

John grits his teeth and tries not to let his annoyance show. That NAMBLA thing feels like a trap. He’s on the verge of crashing through the door. 

“I would have figured at your size, you’d like em sturdy. And a good-sized woman isn’t going to require these itty bitty plugs, not even to start. I mean, that ain’t much bigger than my finger, is it? It’s up to you what you want, but—”

“He’s… she’s fairly small.”

The woman flashes a little smile. “Oh, it’s all right, darling. We’re friendly to all sorts here. You’re safe with us.”

John sincerely doubts it. He pays for his items and clutches the brown paper bag under his arm as the bell chimes his departure. 


	34. Chapter 34

Dean cranes his neck to watch the house grow smaller in the rear window. “You’re just fine with this?”

John hasn’t looked back once. 

“He’s two.”

“Actually, he’s three,” John says. 

Dean squints and tries to compute without the benefit of a mental calendar. “When did that happen?”

“In May.”

“Oh. And what’s it now?”

“July, son. Did you not know that?” 

But how could he know if John’s not telling him and he’s not going to school? 

“How old am I?”

John checks if he’s joking. “You’re 7, Dean.”

“Hm. Will you tell me when I’m 8?”

“Yeah, kiddo. I will.” John signals another left turn. “They seem like nice people.”

“How do you know that?”

John shrugs, amused at his son’s concern. “Sam likes the kid. The parents must be all right.”

Dean climbs onto his knees for one more look before the impala rounds the corner. 

“So, are you going to be worrying about Sam the whole time?” John asks. “Do I need to park outside the house, or can we go have a good time?”

The boy sits, folds his arms, and sulks a moment before he looks up and asks, “Like what fun?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t hear you. Are you with me or are you with Sam?”

“With you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, Daddy.” 

Dean takes his father’s hand in both of his own and kisses the furry knuckles. That makes Daddy smile. Once they’re sailing down the highway, he puts on their song, singing along with the air-microphone and air-drum antics that always make Dean giggle.

I feel like making   
Duduh duh duduh duh duduh duh  
I feel like making

Dean even sings along a little. He almost knows all the words. 

 

***

 

Trapped. Even after the door closes and the roar of the engine fades, Sam stands right where his daddy left him. A staircase rises into darkness behind the tall lady. A room with a table and sofa and fireplace to his left. To his right, there’s another room with an even bigger table surrounded by chairs. He’s never been in a place like this.

Chris grabs his hand. “Come on, Sam.”

But Sam’s feet stayed glued to the spot. There are blue flowers on the wallpaper, and stains on some tiles on the hallway floor. At the end of the hall, there’s another room, but it’s hard to see from here. It’s impossible to tell if anyone else in this big house. 

He looks up at the tall lady. She’s been saying things to him.

“…to go out back on the swings?”

Swings make Sam’s belly feel funny. He shakes his head. 

“How about a snack?” 

Chris jumps up and down. “Oooo! Can we have fruit roll-ups?” 

Dean likes fruit roll-ups, but they don’t taste like fruit. They taste like candy. They’re okay. Sam shrugs. Chris’ mother sighs and looks at the door. Her hands are on her knees, but she’s thinking this was a bad idea and wishing she could call Sam’s daddy back to take him away. That would be fine with Sam. Why did they even leave him here? Are they ever coming back? 

His nose stings. He wipes the snot on the back of his hand.

“What would you like, Sam?”

Sam shrugs again and sticks his fingers in his mouth. Better. 

“You want to see Rowley?”

Chris has been talking about his puppy non-stop since he got her. Yes, Sam wants to see her and pet her, though not with his sucky fingers. He’s got to keep those clean. 

“Good,” Chris’ mom smiles and stands up. “How about some carrots? And then we’ll go out back and visit Rowley. Sam, do you like carrots?”

Carrots are crunchy and yummy. He nods and follows them down the hallway to the room that turns out to be a big kitchen with lots of windows so the sun can shine in right on Sam’s face, which is his favorite thing in the world, except for Dean.

 

***

 

The marquee offers Terminator, Ghostbusters, Gremlins and Indiana Jones. John lets Dean decide. 

It doesn’t matter much what he selected. Most of the popcorn’s gone before the end of the previews. At this Sunday matinee, they've got the back row and most of the theater to themselves. One lonely guy has inexplicably chosen the middle front row. To each their own.

John slides the drinks into the cup holders on either side of their chairs and pulls his date into his lap. Dean rests against his chest while John’s fingers itsy bitsy spider their way up his shirt and find a pair of pebbled nipples. Dean squirms and pumps his hips up to meet the other firm hand on his warm crotch.  

“Hey, big boy. Should Daddy put his hands down your pants or you want it like this?”

Dean guides John’s hand right where he wants it, beneath the pants and the underwear, skin to skin. That way, John can fiddle with his stiff frank and baby beans.

“That’s what you like, huh? Frisky puppy.”

Dean giggles and wiggles around on John’s boner, leaning into the catbath on his neck. With a hand on his cheek, John licks the Coke and popcorn from his Dean’s lips. 

As he often does, the boy squeaks when he comes. John clasps a hand over his mouth and whispers, “That’s it, baby.”

Then Dean takes a little nap. When the film is over, they leave the theater hand in hand. 

“That was a good movie, Daddy.”

“Yeah?” John asks. “What was your favorite part?”

Dean looks up at him, smiles and shrugs.

“You ready to go eat?”

Dean is always ready to eat. He pumps his fists and hugs his daddy’s leg. “How do you think Sam is doing?”

John pinches his shoulder. 

“Ow. Sorry.”

 

***

 

After lunch and handwashing, Sam runs back to the playroom with Chris. There are so many toys, it’s impossible to decide what to play with first. He pauses by the door, but his shutdown doesn’t last as long this time. When Rowley licked him, Sam spent a whole ten minutes crying about the yucky dog smell and slimy tongue. 

Chris brings him a machine shaped like an apple, but bigger and flat. He presses a button, and it says, “X. That’s the letter X.”

Sam plops right down on the carpet and touches all the buttons, one by one.

 

***

John orders a large Pepperoni pizza and two cokes. Then, he plays Skeeball like he invented the game. Dean stands beside him, his own personal cheerleader, shouting every time the ball flies into the 50 point bowl. 

Chuck E. Cheese’s - where a dad can romance his kid.   
   
By the time their food arrives, John has racked up nearly enough tickets to trade for that humongous dog on the top shelf. If he has to spend the rest of the afternoon in this awful place, he’s giving that mutt to his son. 

“Your dad is awesome.” A boy, slightly younger than Dean, has sidled up to watch man dominate machine. “My mom says you should eat with us.”

Dean glances where the boy points. So does John. A thirty-something with curly brown hair and boobs spilling out of her radioactive-pink tanktop waves back.

“What do you think,” John asks.

He may as well have given Dean an earthworm on a fork.

But Bustymom’s not taking no for an answer. She switches over on six-inch heels. Hips awful thin for those tits - another one of nature’s jokes. A vigorous handshake. Amanda. Her boy’s entranced. Daughter’s a pain, but she’s eleven and can’t help that she’s over animatronic life-sized puppets and an indoor ball pit.

Anyway, there’s room for two more. 

“Sure,” John says. “We’d love to.”

No point making enemies. He claps Dean’s shoulder and lets him accordion fold the tickets while John grabs their tray and joins Amanda’s table. 

“So, you boys live near here?” She asks. 

Dean assumes the same posture as the girl - arms folded, eyes rolling like marbles. 

“Not far, actually.”

When John places a slice of pizza on Dean’s plate, the boy looks away and sighs. 

“I take it your wife works Sundays.”

John replies with a polite smile and the god’s honest truth.

“Oh my. You poor thing.”

He’s heard Amanda’s story from so many women he wonders why they even bother with men anymore. Divorcee. Cheater/deadbeat ex. Still, she believes not all men are pigs. John’s got a mean oink. 

Dean crawls into his lap and pulls John’s hands between his legs. 

“Son…” John flushes and yanks away. “Do you need the potty?”

Dean pulls him down to whisper, “I really want it.”

“Want what, baby?”

“Something to suck on.”

John’s face brightens at the jealous audacity of this child.

“You guys will excuse us,” he says. “We’ve got an emergency here.”

He needs to spank some sense into his son.

Amanda makes siren sounds as John shuffles Dean along like a man whose kid is about to wet himself. There’s annoying pop music blowing through the loudspeaker in the bathroom. Once they reach the stall, he bends low and grabs Dean by his dinosaur t-shirt. 

“Hey. You know better. This is not the place…”

Dean’s hands are already fumbling with his belt. John catches them. 

“You don’t want me to do it?” Dean pouts. “You want her.”

The impossible beauty of his tears derails John’s anger. He holds the little face between his hands, kisses trembling lips. Then he lifts the featherweight and pins him against the stall door. A finger down the back of Dean’s pants meets the second from thickest butt plug that he dutifully wears all day with complaining. 

“I don’t want anything but you,” John says. “Ever again, as long as I live.”

If he could marry his little boy, he’d say the vows here and now. 

What he can do is plunge his tongue into Dean’s mouth, press him against the door and kiss until they’re both dizzy. 

“You want it,” John breathes the words into Dean’s mouth. 

His slender hips press even closer, ass clenching in John’s palms. 

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Shhh.”

This is insanity. Sheer, complete madness. It’s also the hottest thing John has ever done in his life. To hell with the Mile High Club. Try getting your dick sucked in a Chuck E. Cheese’s bathroom that positively reeks of little boy piss. That thought alone makes John stiff.  
   
Dean’s doesn’t have to go to his knees, which is good because the floor is sticky. He’s the perfect height. Designed and built to please his daddy. John just needs to go easy, to be gentle. Dean has only fully taken it in his mouth one other time, in the boat at Duckett’s. So long ago he might not remember. They’ve talked about it. John has blown his son, without insisting on reciprocation. Last thing he needs is another situation where he’s driving into a tiny, reluctant mouth and splits the sides like Batman’s Joker. How he hell would he explain that away?

Sure, John has asked for it, but he’s been waiting for Dean to be ready, like a good dad.  

Jealousy works wonders. Now the boy’s standing with both hands on John’s shaft and his candy-pink lips stretched around John’s tip in the most holy, profane way. Dean moans and pulls off to say, “It’s so big.”

“Shhh,” John says, veins rushing with lighter fluid. 

He pokes it back in the boy’s mouth. Excited as he is, it won’t take long. Dean’s tongue tickles his frenulum, probably not on purpose, but it’s perfect.   
A bit too perfect. 

His hips cant forward, only slightly, driving in his dick another inch. Trouble is, there isn’t far to go before he’s down the boy’s throat. Dean gags and pulls off. He coughs and sputters, wiping at the stream of tears on his sickened face. 

“Dean.”

He shakes his head. Opens the door and flees the bathroom, leaving John with his hard cock in his hand. He can’t very well march back into the play area with tented pants.

“Fuck.”

“Excuse me?”

He hadn’t even heard someone else enter the bathroom. Sounds like a teenager. Probably works here.

“My son,” John says, putting himself away. “Did you see a blond kid run out of here?”

“Yeah, he’s over by the puppets. He’s pretty fast.”

“Loves those damn things.” 

John silently curses and waits until the teen finishes and leaves (without washing his hands). 

Wait or jerk? Wait or jerk?   
He jerks fast and sloppy like a teenager himself. Comes and emerges from the bathroom. 

Dean wouldn’t leave with someone else, would he? 

Before John can grow frantic, he finds his son staring up at the purple monster thing. If they weren’t in public, John would wring his neck, whip his ass and teach him how to take this cock properly. Instead, he places a hand on Dean’s head, leans down and whispers, “Don’t you fucking run from me like that. You understand?”

Dean nods, as sincere as any child ever was. “It hurt my mouth.”

“Well, you say that. You don’t run away.”

“I’m sorry.”

John kneels, straightens Dean’s shirt. He mock-jabs the boy’s chin before he pulls him into a hug. “Scared me.”

“Daddy?”

“Hm?”

Dean looks up at the monster again and asks, “Does he have a cock?”

 

***

The door opens, and the mother holds a finger in front of her wonky smile. Then she points into the living room where Sam and the other boy lay with their heads on the same pillow. They’re almost four and smaller than John’s ideal, but it’s one hell of a cute scene. He’d get a kick out of watching them fumble around, naked, glazed with honey or peanut butter. Make them lick each other. See what happens.

Better stop that train of thought. No good sprouting another one here. 

“Is he okay?” Dean asks. 

John frowns. “Why wouldn’t he be okay?”

“He’s just tired,” the boy’s mother says. “They ran all day. He’s going to sleep like an angel for you tonight.”

“I hope you’re right.” 

That would be perfect. In fact, it makes John wonder. 

“Do you often have trouble with…”

“Christian, sleeping through the night? No, not anymore,” she says. “But a few months ago, he had this phase where he’d wake up and come stand at the foot of our bed. Freaky. Like Poltergeist or something.”

Her laugh sounds like kittens fighting. John fake smiles. Poltergeist. If she had any idea. 

“Anyway, my husband had this genius idea of giving him juice with a tablespoon of Benadryl. It worked better than Xanax. For me, I mean.”

She lets out another high-pitched shriek. John nudges Dean to wipe the grimace off his face. Once Sam is in his arms, they head back for the door. 

“Oh,” the mother says and hands Dean a toy. “He spent half the day with this. If you want, he can hold on to it for a few days and bring it to the school, or the next time he comes over. Welcome any time, by the way. A sweet, sweet boy, once he’s comfortable.”  
“Thanks,” John says, and he’s never meant it more. 


	35. Chapter 35

In John’s book, that little boy’s mother is a saint. It’s beautiful to behold Sam, the energizer bunny, powering down, and it only required two tablespoons of Benadryl in a cup of OJ. Best six dollars ever spent.

As ordered, Dean showers and waits in the middle of their bed with damp hair and legs folded Indian-style. John stands at his feet, drunk with love. 

“Come here,” he whispers. “Take my shirt off.”

This morning, John dressed himself and his date in their nicest clothes: clean shirts and jeans. Dean bites his lip and blunders with the buttons. It’s the most adorable thing on earth, how he smiles proudly when the final button opens and the shirt swings wide.  

John cups the back of Dean’s skull and kisses him deeply, dearly. The fabric drops and John loosens his buckle.

“No, let me.”

Belts are complicated business for small hands. The fly button is even more difficult. He lets Dean struggle for a minute before popping it open. Dean easily slides down the zipper.

John asks, “What do you think Daddy should do to you tonight?”

Dean shrugs. 

“You take your plug out?”

He nods. 

“Let me see.”

Just like a well-trained puppy, he’s up on his knees, crawling around to face the pillows. John smooths a hand over his right cheek and gives a sharp smack. Dean gasps but doesn’t move away. 

“That hurt?”

Nod.

“Words.”

“Yes.”

Slap, this time on the left. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

With the plug removed, two fingers glide in effortlessly. “You’re wide open for me, Dean.” 

The boy glances over his shoulder, but he can’t see his own asshole. John hooks the fingers and sways his hips side to side.

“Would you like your daddy to make love you tonight?”

No answer. None required. John steps out of his pants.

“You remember what making love is?”

Dean nods. “When you put… your thing inside me.”

“Good job. That’s right. It’s also called fucking.” 

John crawls over his back, entranced by his body enveloping the boy’s. He turns Dean’s face for a kiss and slides in between his cheek, not yet angling to enter. 

“Do we say those words outside this room?”

Dean shakes head. Sweet puppy is holding his breath.

“No, we don’t.” 

John sits back on his ankles, pulls his sweetheart into his arms. Dean draws in a long breath like he’s been diving for pearls. 

“Don’t be scared.”

He rests on his father’s shoulder, cradled in his arm, tiny fingers creeping through the dark hair on John’s chest. That always brings a shiver to his spine and the blood right to his cock. 

“Daddy is going to fuck you tonight, Dean,” he speaks the words into his mouth, so he can taste and swallow that truth.

“Will it hurt?”

“Maybe,” John says. “A little.”

Dean tenses, rolls in his lips.

“Can you be brave for me?”

He nods. 

“You love your daddy enough to be a big, brave boy? You want to make me feel good?”

Of course, he does. He’s an angel sent from heaven and John is the most blessed man on the face of the planet. 

He lays Dean on his belly, giving him three fingers. Dean gives back a quiet hum. His hole is still tight, but it’s pliant. It damn well ought to be, all the prep John’s done. Those plugs have served their purpose, but after today, all Dean will get or need is a regular and thorough dicking.

“You ready, baby?”

There’s no way he’s ready. That’s the fucking hottest part. 

This dick has broken him once. Got to take it easy. No more hospital. John reminds Dean to breathe, but holds his own breath until his tip has penetrated the initial resistance. Dean lets out a high moan. His daddy’s heart dances behind his ribs. Sweat crops over his back. 

John is already shuddering. Dean tries to look over his shoulder. 

“You’re doing great, baby. Oh, fuck.”

John’s balls tighten to release.  
No. Please. Not yet.

He squeezes his eyes shut, and waits for his mind and body to calm. Below him, Dean sips air, clutches the sheets but does not complain. John ruffles his hair. 

“What a trooper, buddy.” 

Within a moment, he’s ready to push in farther. Sweet agony at this pace. Almost too tight. Another pause, another inch. Soon, half of John’s cock is lodged in his boy. If he had that camera, nothing on earth would stop him from snapping a shot.

“God, that looks so good, baby.”

Dean doesn’t move, or speak, or respond.

“You still with me?”

A tiny nod.

John pulls out and globs more Vaseline. Instead of trying to delve deeper, he slides back in to the halfway mark. Ripples of pleasure become waves, threatening to drag him under. To be safe, he pulls out again and admires the wide opening he’s carved for himself.

“You’re beautiful, Dean. You know that? God damn, you’re beautiful.”

So, he’s talking to his son’s asshole, but those words apply to every inch of him, inside and out.   
John enters again. Curls an arm under and around Dean’s tummy. This is as unified as they’ll ever be, unless John eats the child.

He licks, sucks, bites.

“Ow, Daddy.”

Everything short of ripping away flesh.

It would be easy. Wouldn’t even have to kill him first. Start with a cute little baby toe. Smaller than a chicken McNugget.   
Wee wee wee, all the way down Daddy’s throat.   
Maybe sedate him first. Maybe not. Bandage it well. He’s young, he’ll heal quick. Keep the bones in a special box with a lock. Who would stop him? That way, Dean would be inside of him, too. Deep in the unlit recesses that yellow-eyed fiend stirred awake. 

John groans, hooks an arm around Dean’s neck, right hand squeezing his hip.

“Am I crushing you?”

Dean groans.

Crush, munch, grind the bones for bread.   
John chuckles at the giant humor and promises to make it quick. 

But he doesn’t want to be quick. He wants to be inside Dean forever. To crawl into his smooth, soft body and fester beneath the skin until there’s nothing left but I love you, Daddy. Dive in so deep he comes out the other end, shining, refined in the white-hot fire of Dean’s ass, his heart, his panting maw.

Only three of John’s fingers fit in Dean’s mouth. Hold down his tongue. The boy sucks like he’s starving. Exhales a primal grunt every time John drives in. Soon, the same sound rips from John’s lips, as well. He pulls out, rests again. If he can make it last all night, he will. He’d fuck his son until kingdom come, until sweet baby Jesus does his repeat performance.

John’s heart is slamming against his ribs like a wild bird newly-caged. Beating a frantic rhythm against Dean’s back.

“You feel that?”

The boy nods.

Poppa aligns his cock and punches in, deeper, faster, harder until Deans grunts are yelps. Fox pup call. John wants more of that helpless, pitiful begging. He pounds the boy and gets what he’s after: Dean shrieking, clawing at the sheets, squirming beneath him, feet raised to either side of John’s knees, toes curled.

“That’s it, baby. Fucking take it.”

John tries him on his knees, but he’s too small. The angle is wrong. Better if John lies on his back and lowers Dean onto his cock, facing away. His hips are perfect handles to guide the boy up and down like he’s on a carnival ride.

“You all right?”

Dean doesn’t answer. He collapses back, spread over John’s chest, arms wide like Christ. His head lolls on John’s shoulders, his feet resting on either side of John’s thighs with a slight bend at the knee. Little cock arched for the ceiling.

“Touch yourself.”

Dean always obeys. Such a good boy. As he does, his little hips pump.

“That’s it, baby. Stroke it… Slow down. Wait. Not so fast, Dean.”

His ass is still so tight. It’s too good. John’s balls contract until they’ve practically retreated. He grits his teeth, slams on the brakes, but there’s no cure for gravity. Dean tugs his tiny wood. His hole clenches. John grips his thighs and rams him down one final time, both of them shouting on impact. John Winchester shoots his son full of the same semen that brought him into this world.

It’s a fucking miracle. A thing of beauty. He’s still trembling with aftershocks and Dean is still hard at work.

“That’s right, buddy,” John pants. “So hot, Dean.”

Holy fuck if John’s dick isn’t still hard. It doesn’t seem possible, but he’s wound up even tighter, gasping, shuddering, holding Dean tight around his middle.

“Oh, fuck baby. Fuck, I’m gonna come again.”

He adds a second coating while the boy finally shimmies out his dry orgasm with an adorable whine.

They’ve both earned the sleep that drifts over them.

Well after midnight, John awakens to piss. Then he returns to bed and wraps himself around his son like a cocoon. Dean’s fingertips trail over his right bicep. John’s drowsy, fuck-weary brain slowly registers that he’s tracing the Semper Fi eagle tattoo. The curiosity and tenderness enchant like a spell. 

John kisses Dean’s hair, rolls him on his side, and slow screws him like a newlywed bride.


	36. Chapter 36

A week later, with honeymoon sweetness still floating around them, John sighs and spreads his arms on the sofa. Dean drops his head back on his shoulder. Sweat cleaves their skin together. John’s still inside his boy when he asks, “What do you want to do now?” 

“Could we watch a movie?”

“Sure,” he says and smooths Dean’s damp hair. “What you got in mind?”

“Something funny?”

That’s perfect. Dean can watch the screen while John adores his goofy, snorty laughter. Poppa lifts his beer from the side table, takes a swig and offers Dean a small draught. He turns up his little nose but takes what he’s given.

As always, when they watch so late, Dean falls asleep around the midpoint. John clicks pause and carries him back to the bedroom. It smells like this afternoon. Hazy moonlight shines through the curtain, airbrushing the stinky cherub curled up on the soiled sheets. 

John should let him sleep. It’s only been a couple hours since their last go, but he’s already hard again. Like a brick.  
It’s not his fault. Dean is never more precious than when he sleeps. How many times this week has John woken him with a dick in his mouth or one driving into his hole?

He’s fucked his son, literally, everywhere: in his arms in the shower, knobby knees draped over elbows, bent over the kitchen table with his legs dangling free, in the front seat of the Impala with Dean gripping the steering wheel while John helped him bounce, in the backseat with a streetlamp dilating his pupils ‘til he’s black-eyed and gasping - breath synchronized with the thrust of John’s hips.

Every time has been sweeter and dirtier than the last.

Enough.   
The kid needs a break. 

John pulls on his clothes. Before he makes it to the door, Dean squeaks after him. Not a word. Just a sleepy whine.

“Yeah, baby.”

“Where you going?”

For a walk. Ten minutes of night air to calm himself before he climbs into bed with this sexy baby. Leaving the house is John’s only chance not to wreck him right now. 

“Just… I’ll be back in a little.”

“Can I come?” Already sitting up, rubbing his eyes. 

Could any man say no?

They walk hand in hand in the dark. It’s well after midnight. John points out a fluttering of bats and Dean stops to watch until they disappear.

“Are you scared, Daddy?”

John smiles and shakes his head. He doesn’t show Dean his pistol, but he never leaves home without it strapped to his back. 

“Do you ever get scared?”

John kneels in front of his son, hands on his shoulders. “The only thing that scares me is the idea of losing you.”

“How would you lose me?” Dean asks. “I’m pretty big.”

John chuckles and stands. “It’s true. You are.”

They walk on, John humming a few bars of their song while Dean wiggles beside him. Nocturnal creatures.

“You want to slide?” John asks even before they reach the playground. 

It’s a joke. The closest light source is across the street. The sliver of moon keeps hiding behind soupy clouds. The whole place is eerie and menacing - a dinosaur graveyard. That doesn’t phase Dean, the intrepid with his trusty bodyguard. He drops his father’s hand and scurries ahead. 

Dean never makes it to the slide. John stops him on the ladder, hands on the boy’s hips. Dean turns to face him and grins.

“I’m tall as you now.”

“Maybe someday.”

Dean closes his arms around John’s neck and yields to a deep, lingering kiss. 

“Wait right here.”

It must be scary watching his daddy walk away into the darkness, but Dean demonstrates perfect trust, waiting until John returns with a clover blossom between thumb and forefinger. 

“Dean Winchester, will you marry me?”

Dean snickers. 

“I’m serious. Would you?”

The laughter dries up when the boy sees his father’s earnest expression.

“Like Mommy?”

“Like you.” Like Mommy could never be. 

Dean half shrugs, half nods and watches the stem wrap round and round his fourth finger with the purple-white bloom on top. 

“Now, you’re mine forever.”

Dean bites his lip, studies his makeshift ring and takes a deep breath. John doesn’t inquire what he’s thinking. Instead, he offers a poem.

“Like Shel Silverstein?”

“Kind of,” John says.

My warm whisper,  
Deep in your ear.   
The people around us  
Unaware  
Of how you tremble  
At my words  
How your body blushes  
In places, they can’t see*

Dean blinks. “Did you make that up?”

John nods. There are a hundred more in his journal. Along with Dean’s second lost tooth, taped between the pages - a sacred relic.

“It’s nice.”

“Thank you.”

Dean’s too young to understand the words, but his body knows. Yearns toward him as they kiss. His fingers slide through John’s hair, scratch his scalp lightly, play in his beard, drawing soft moans from his daddy’s throat. Dredging up more love and naked want than the man thought possible.

He lets John turn him to face the ladder, grips the sides and watches over his shoulder as his sweatpants slide low enough to reveal his moon-pale ass.

John makes him climb a couple of rungs higher so his mouth level with Dean’s hole. It’s a revelation standing in the dark with one hand fumbling with his fly while the other holds Dean open so he can delve his tongue inside. He breathes and laps up the bitter-salty essence of his own seed and his son’s musk. Dean juts out his ass. John spanks him and jiggles his left cheek.

“You want it, don’t you?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Whenever you play here, I want you to think about your daddy fucking you against this ladder.”

“Okay.”

“You little…”

“Say it, Daddy.” Dean humps the ladder. “Call me something.”

“Call you something?” John’s got his cock out now, spits into his palm. “A little cumslut? That what you are?”

“Uh-huh.”

Dean doesn’t know what that means. The word can’t possibly. turn him on, but he knows what it does to John. 

“You dirty, little whore. Look at you.” Another slap on his ass. “You want this dick on your pussy, don’t you?”

“What’s pussy, Daddy?”

“The part of you that’s made for my cock. This right here.”

John jams a spit-lubed finger inside. Dean tenses, clenches and howls into the palm John clamps over his face while Daddy warms him up with a few quick jabs.

Down two rungs is the perfect height to enter him. Dean rests his face on a rung as John grabs his thin hips to pull him all the way home. He wails like he’s never taken it before. He always does. It’s a goddamn miracle. 

“Daddy. It’s so big.”

John has never shown him porn. He’d considered it and decided against it since he doesn’t have any with boys Dean’s size. No, Dean is just a natural. He doesn’t need a script to know what to say, or how to act, or when to whimper. 

“Oh, Dean. God. You’re so perfect.” John wraps both arms tight around his chest, plundering like a pirate.

Dean moans, lets go of the ladder, leans back into John’s arms, giving himself over completely. 

“Does it hurt, baby?”

“Mmm.”

“What do you say?”

He takes a moment to remember. “I love you, Daddy.”

“That’s it. There’s my good boy. You feel so good. Just fucking made for me, aren’t you? Made to be fucked, you little…”

“Am I a good slut?”

“Yes, you are, baby. You’re my perfect, cock-loving slut.”

Dean whines and takes it. John fucks him so furious that he only narrowly hears the twig crack. The moment the sound registers, he reaches for his weapon, cock still lodged in his son. He deftly pulls out, adjusts his pants and directs Dean to scramble over the other side of the playground and hide in the playhouse. They still call it Sam’s house because that’s where he likes to hide from the other kids. 

The door is hardly closed when an older man emerges from the shadow with a shotgun resting on his arm and a perturbed look under his scraggly grey beard.

“Where’s the girl?”

“What girl?”

John holds his weapon at his side, ready to take out the old timer’s pacemaker.

“We heard a girl. Me and Alma both,” he says. “Nobody cares that you’re out here screwing. We all been young, dumb, and full of cum. I just came to say she’s too damn loud. You going to wake up people’s dogs. Then everybody’s going to be sour in the morning. The old lady’s telling me to come down here and do something about it. So, here I am.”

The old man looks about, hobbles toward the playhouse. John steps in his path. 

“There’s no girl,” he says. “I’m down here by myself.”

“At the playground, by yourself, in the middle of the night? All right, well, I know what I heard. Teenybopper, by the sound of it.” The old man sucks his teeth. “If she don’t mind, and she don’t tell her daddy, don’t make no different to me. But what I’m telling you is keep it indoors or keep it quiet.”

With that, the neighborhood Minute Man turns and limps back the way he came. John doesn’t holster his weapon. He stands scratching his beard, pulse thundering, considering the best way to get Dean home without being seen.


	37. Chapter 37

They’re supposed to be tossing the ball around. Kid’s got a decent arm for his age, but he’s also wearing these tiny jean shorts that ought to be junk. Like his father, Dean would wear any clothes until they disintegrate. Since it’s summer, John let him hack off the damaged denim below the knee. They’re so tight they outline his ass like a promise. 

Dean picks up the ball and hurls it back. This time, instead of returning it, John holds the ball and gestures with a finger. Dean scampers over, hands high, leaping as if he could reach it above his dad’s head. 

The too-small t-shirt rides up, exposing a strip of creamy skin. John’s boys ought to get more sun. When he’s out a while, Dean’s freckles burst out all over. His complexion grows buttery. Tastes like that, too: smooth and salty.

If they weren’t in the middle of a park, John would help himself to that plump bottom lip. He settles for slapping his son’s butt and murmuring, “Let’s head back.”

“Time for Sam?”

“Jesus Christ, Dean. Can I have one hour with you?”

John shoves the ball at him and tromps back toward the car. 

 

***

 

Dean is laying on his father’s arm, pawing his sore and slimy bottom when the call comes. Dad ignores the phone for the second time. The third time it rings, he sighs and gets up to answer. 

Dean doesn’t hear the details. As always, he nods and accepts the pistol. He watches his father dress and leave without asking when he’ll be back. 

Sam wakes around the same time the birds chirp. Breakfast is bacon on bread. Once they’ve eaten, Dean cleans up. Then he asks his brother what he wants to do.  

“Can I go to Chris’ house?”

“I don’t think so, buddy?” Dean says. “I don’t have a phone and I don’t know where he lives.”

The playground is also a no-go, too. No crossing the salt line when their dad’s not around.   
   
“Can I go to school?”

Freak. It’s Saturday. 

Sam sucks on his fingers and sighs. When he finally asks to draw, Dean hunts for crayons and paper. What he finds instead is a kind of a book with lots of drawings and writing. 

It’s his dad’s book, and the pictures look like Dean, only with wings on some and snake bodies on others. Never any clothes on. He turns those pages quick. They make his belly feel funny. And he doesn’t want Sam to see.  
In the back, there are lots of free pages. 

Dean has been so good, his dad won’t punish him. He never complains about any of it. Never does anything bad. In fact, Dad says all the time that he’s a good boy.

It’s Dean’s job to keep Sam busy. So, he tears out a few sheets and puts him at the kitchen table with the 24 markers from the same drawer. Sam draws a bunch of funny-looking trees, and dogs, and the sun. He even writes his name, which Dean didn’t know he could do. 

Their TV is busted, so Dean tells stories and makes up jokes. Dinner is mustard and bread, because all the bacon is gone. There’s Daddy’s beer, but Dean doesn’t know how to open the bottles, and it’s not food, and tastes disgusting anyway.

By the time their dad comes in, Sam is asleep. It’s a good thing, too, because Dad is tossing his boots and stomping around the place. There’s no way to know what went wrong, but Dean balls himself up small on his side of the bed and pretends to sleep. 

It works. 

The next morning, Dad sleeps longer than Sam. Dean keeps his little brother good and quiet. Gives Sam the last slice of bread for breakfast. In the afternoon, their father wakes up and everything goes wrong.

For a while, he doesn’t say a word. Sits at the table and drinks beer. Dean doesn’t risk asking whether he can walk Sam to the park, or even try to cheer his dad up with a kiss. He and Sam sit in the empty bathtub playing a silent version of Miss Lili’s card game.

“Sam!”

Their father’s voice rattles the walls and Dean’s bones.   
He bounds into the bathroom and lifts Sam by his shoulders, all of his cards flutter from his hand. Before he even knows what Sam did wrong, Dean hops to his feet and says, “It’s my fault.”

“You drew this?”

Dean’s mouth falls open when he sees the papers. It hadn’t occurred to him to throw them away or burn them on the stove. He knows now he should have done that. Some of the drawings were pretty good. He thought his dad might want to see.

“Did you, Dean? Are these yours?”

Dean could lie, but his dad isn’t dumb enough to believe he drew those squiggly-lined people and stuff. So, he tells the truth, “It’s my fault. I gave them to him.”

“You don’t touch my fucking things,” Dad screams into Sam’s eyes. “Do you understand?”

Sam nods. John props one foot on the toilet lid, bends Sam over his knee and slaps his bare legs. There haven’t been any spankings for a while. At least not this mean kind. Sam howls and Dean grabs his father’s arm.

“No, Daddy, please.” 

He yanks away and hits Sam again, and again.

Dean stands there, shivering, listening to the smack and shriek of his brother being punished for Dean’s stupidity. He could run from the room and hide from it. But maybe if he stands here, crying, his father will see and stop. That used to work, didn't it?

When it finally ends, John drops Sam back in the tub and drags Dean from the room by his arm. 


	38. Chapter 38

Two days later, John is sailing through the midday sun, with a hand on the back of his little wife’s skull when the sirens let out their awful wail. All he’d been aware of for the last ten miles was Dean’s perfect mouth and how good he’s getting at relaxing his throat. They’ve been practicing for weeks with all sorts of things: a zucchini, John’s fingers. Vomit happens, but the boy is an apt pupil.

Now, with the flashing lights behind him, John tamps down the instinct to run like hell. He signals right. 

“Sit up, son.”

After a quick check, and swipe to remove the glistening spit from Dean’s chin, John’s ready to pull over and give up his license and registration.

“Something wrong, officer?”

“Speed limit is 55 here,” the man says without looking up from John’s Montana ID. “You’re doing 66. In some kind of rush?”

“No, sir.”

The cop walks back to his car, does the customary check while John runs his hand over Dean’s fresh crewcut for luck and comfort. When the officer returns, he hands John his papers along with the question: “And why isn’t this little guy in school?”

“Actually, he’s homeschooled, sir.”

“Is that right?” The cop glances over at Dean who nods. 

John smiles. 

Off with a warning. 

 

***

They’ve been rolling for days, sleeping and eating in the car, non-stop. John stops to stretch his back and let the kids run around. Since the Winchesters left Wyoming, they’ve fallen into a rhythm of running, touching down for a few weeks here and there. John thinks of their life in flight as a family endeavor, but he’s the only one with his foot on the gas. 

Dean constantly begs him to settle down a while, for Sam’s sake. If John whiffs comfort, he moves, for his own sake. 

He stands and his spine snaps, crackles and pops its gratitude. The sound effects and shot of pain reminds him he’s 40 now and ought to get more movement. He lights a smoke and watches his boys race to the playground.

 

***

 

Dean is eight years old on his first day of school. It’s the fall of ’86 in Lenore, Kentucky. John forges birth certificate, and transcript, and drops him off for third grade with a backpack and a promise:

“You go in there and talk about our private time, they’ll take you away from me. And away from Sam, you hear? Is it fair? No, but it’s true. Secret is sacred, do you know what that means?”

Dean shakes his head.

“What’s ours is ours.”

John spends his days driving a backhoe. His credentials are also falsified, too, but he knows how to do the work. Every now and again, he leaves the boys and picks up a hunt. Just to keep sharp. If he ran into the demon today, the SOB would get a pass. 

That monster is responsible for his diseased desires, but John no longer wants a cure. 

Most nights, he comes in after midnight, delivers Sam into his cot in the living room and spends the rest of the dark hours testing the bed springs and Dean’s obedience.

He lays his beloved on the bed, undresses him and kisses his sleepy mouth. Rubs his spindly ribs.

“You miss me today?”

Dean nods like he’s supposed to.

“Yeah? Daddy missed you, too. But I brought you something.” 

It’s a big fat cock. Dean sure seems to appreciate his gift. Gags pretty, the way Daddy likes. When John is good and wet, he pins Dean’s knees to his shoulders and surges in. The boy pants and groans, gripping his dad’s shoulders. 

“Just relax, buddy. You know how to do this. There it is. Look at that. Already in. Easy peasy.”

Dean nods, mouth wide, brow furrowed in concentration, sweet little whimpers punching from his mouth: “Unh unh unh unh. Daddy.”

“Yeah, baby. That feel good?”

“Yes, yesyes.”

“Say it.”

“Good. Good. unh unh.”

“I am so proud of you, big boy,” John says and swings Dean’s arms around his neck. “Hang on, now.”

It’s like he’s weightless. They might as well be fucking in deep space, with Dean’s ankles clasped at the base of John’s spine so he doesn’t float away. John practically dancing around the room. Every time he pulls him down to the hilt, the boy screams. 

There’s only a plasterboard wall between their rented duplex and the neighbor, so John smothers Dean’s face against his chest.

“So hot. Daddy fucking loves you so much.”

As much as he’d like to make it last, he tumbles over the edge like he’s got no brakes.

 

***

 

With the last of the auburn leaves clinging to the trees, John takes his boys out to a secluded lake. While Sam draws shapes in the sand with a stick, he leads Dean in locating the goose they just shot down. A few minutes prior, he’d let the boys startle the wading flock. Then, he’d sat in the grass, pulled the boy into his lap, set the sight and pulled Dean’s finger over the trigger.

First kill. Well, first animal kill. 

John hooted and Dean shrank back against him as the bird careened from the sky. It came down somewhere on the other side of the lake. Now, it’s just a matter of finding the damn thing. 

“Daddy! Daddy!” Dean runs ahead and dances around the bird, filling his father’s chest with warm pride. 

Big as they are, a goose is mostly feathers. Not a lot of meat on the thing. But they’re good teaching birds: slow to take off, clumsy flyers until they reach 100 feet. 

On the spot, John shows Dean how to field dress the bird: get out all the guts and gizzards. He lets his son bag her, a struggle for his small hands, but he manages. On the drive back to the cabin, John details how they’ll boil it, pluck it, and skin it before they can skewer and fire roast it on a spit. Hunting is not for the lazy or faint-hearted.

By the time the goose is only a pile of bones on a plate in the middle of the table, Johnny Boy has loaded up on Johnnie Walker red. He slouches on the sofa while his sons romp, laughing and knocking into furniture, as pups will do.   
Their wildness is not what burrows under his skin. 

The longer he watches Dean crawl about on his hands and knees, whinnying and bucking with Sam on his back, the more clear it becomes that Dean never laughs as loud or smiles as bright when he’s alone with John. He reserves his most sincere joy for his little brother. 

All Dean’s love and devotion in the bedroom is an act. 

“Put him down,” John barks. “Right now.”

Dean perks up and carefully rises so Sam can slide from his back.

“Get over here.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“You a horsey, Dean? That what you are?”

His eyes are huge and round. He’s unsure how to answer.

“You like being an animal, you can be Daddy’s doggie.”

Dean nods, still confused.

“Get down. Hands and knees.”

Dean obeys. Across the room, Sam watches with his fingers in his mouth.

“Lick my hand.”

Dean glances over his shoulder and John’s palm cracks hot against his cheek. 

“Over here, puppy. Lick your master’s hand.”

He obeys, face brightening.

“Now, roll on your back.” John scratches his belly. “Good doggie. You see that right there?” he points to Sam. “That’s your dinner. Attack.”

Dean’s mouth falls open, forms a tiny o. 

“I mean it. Right now. Sic. Sic him, boy!”

Dean blinks at his brother. Slowly, he stands. John pushes him back onto all fours and shouts with fiery, liquor breath: “Fucking kill, boy! Kill kill!”

Dean crawls toward Sam. 

“Sink your fangs in his neck, Dean. Do it now!”

He lays Sam on his back, looks at his neck, chews on his own lips.

“You’re a shitty dog, Dean.” 

John closes his eyes, drops his head back on the sofa and passes out.


	39. Chapter 39

Dean Williams (he gets to keep his first name) does great in school - apart from the remedial reading level, first-grade math level, and constant joking in class. He makes friends easily and nobody fucks with him. The teachers who can tolerate his antics think he’s a terrific kid with high potential to become an amiable garbage man.

Sam’s new teacher is amazed at the ease with which he reads PD Eastman, which only serves to enhance her crush on John. He accepts the credit but has no idea where the boy learned. Probably at a friend’s houses or Sesame Street. Who knows?

The little genius sits on the slab of concrete that passes for a porch with a book in his lap. Dean scrambles up a nine-foot pile of black snow - vestiges of a late March storm that surprised even the weatherman. The boy slides down on the seat pockets of his jeans and then scuttles to his dad’s side to peer into the popped trunk.

“Can I help?”

“Sure,” John says and ruffles grease into his hair. 

He lets the boy stand on his toolbox to look at the engine. John slaps his son’s cold, wet rump and stations himself behind him, pointing out the parts. Dean listens like there’ll be a test. He asks to tighten a lug. For a while, John’s able to concentrate and teach him. But all it takes is for Dean to accidentally bump against his crotch a few times. Lesson’s over. 

John would hoist the boy onto his shoulder if it weren’t for nosy neighbors. Instead, he whispers, “Go get in the bed and wait for me.”

Dean looks up, green eyes wide. He cocks his head. “I thought we were going to —.”

“Do what I said,” John murmurs. “Go on. Scoot.”

He places his tools in the trunk. Within two minutes, he closes the bedroom door. Dean is sitting on his hands on the edge of the bed. He bites the corner of his lip while his father loosens his buckle. 

“Hey, little boy.”

“Hey, Daddy.”

John cups his sweet baby’s face. Dean’s eyes flick to the door. Always the same. 

“I told him to stay outside until I come get him,” John says. 

He digs his permanent markers from the top drawer and sets them on the bed beside his son. 

“Get undressed.”

Dean glances at the markers.

“Now.”

John grabs him and jostles the clothes from his body, tossing them in a corner. The boy, he flips onto his belly. Then, John strips to his black jerseys. He pushes Dean to his knees, a hand on his throat, the other gripping his skull.

“You Daddy’s whore?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“My bitch?”

“Yes. Daddy.”

“Yeah? Then, show me that pussy right now.”

John tosses him onto the bed. Dean hops onto all fours, sticks his ass in the air.  
   
“That’s good. Now, wag your tail.”

Deans sways his hips while John strokes his meat.

“Bark for Daddy.”

Woof. 

“Now, whine like a good little bitch.”

So good, in fact, that Daddy is dripping over his fingers. John gives himself a moment before sitting and hauling Dean onto his lap. He offers the kid a green Sharpie.

Dean stares but doesn’t accept the prize. He has experience with these pens. Not long ago, John completely reamed Sam out for drawing with them. Granted, he’d written on paper, but he didn’t have authorization and John let him have it. Not a smack or anything, but a good, long spanking. 

Dean’s wise to be wary.

“I’m giving you permission now.”

Dean finally takes the pen and John presents his belly. 

“Draw anything you want. Right here.”

He’d rather have the art on his forearm where he could admire it all day, but it’s safer to keep it hidden from prying and curious eyes, in case Dean draws dick or an asshole.

After one more moment of hesitation, his son takes a true artist’s time and concentration to draw a darn good cat. John tucks his chin to his chest to see and smiles. 

“I think you forgot something.”

Dean frowns. 

“What about the whiskers?”

Dean’s mouth falls open in appreciative recognition. He adds the curved lines of a French mustache for his kitty.

“That’s awesome, baby. What else?”

Dean screws up his mouth as he deliberates. His next masterwork is a red and black snake, which John suggests he evolve into a dragon by adding wings. Dean’s grin shows all his teeth and all the gaps between. 

“Now, sign it.”

That doesn’t go so well. He writes the letters, but slowly, carefully, without confidence. 

“Beautiful,” John says, “Now lay on your belly.”

Dean blinks, almost as if he’s surprised at the command. He shouldn’t be. That’s John’s favorite position for taking him. John slips out of his underwear and slides the markers aside. He grips Dean’s hips, pulling him up onto his knees. On a whim, he sucks on the bottom of a pen and slips it into Dean’s pretty, pink hole. 

“How does that feel?”

“Cold,” Dean says, peeking over his shoulder. “What is it?”

John smiles and holds it up to show. 

Dean scrunches his face. “Finger feels best.”

“Does it now?”

John wets his left forefinger and honors his son’s preference. Dean responds by easing back onto it and then inching forward again. John gives him a slap. “Such a slut.”

That’s the first thing he writes:

‘SL - UT’

In huge, bold, red across Dean’s cheeks. 

“Hand me that lube, baby.”

Dean reaches the bedside table and hands his father the bottle. John greases up but only enters the tip. This way he can look straight down and watch his shaft disappear within Dean’s hole. He grunts and strains not to come from the sight alone. 

On with the plan. Like a lovesick fourth-grader, John turns the first word into an acrostic, writing the word ‘Sweetheart’  down from the large S on his left mound. He spells ‘Angel’ across from the A.

On the right side, John writes in cursive:

‘Beautiful’ and ‘Daddy’s boy’

Somewhere on earth, there’s a tattoo artist who’d ink his son for him. No questions asked.

John drives in half-inch and draws a heart on Dean’s lower back. He presses in further and etches another on his shoulder. Unable to wait any longer, John thrusts in all the way, forcing a low moan out of his canvas. 

He fucks in earnest for a few minutes and then stops himself to render a green dragonfly wing on each shoulder. Every now and again, Dean giggles or groans, but mostly he lays perfectly still under his father’s pen, taking pen and cock like a dream.

“Almost done.” John finishes decorating his toy and tosses his marker aside. “You’re an angel, you know that?”

Dean tries to peek over his shoulder and John kisses him.

“Now, listen to me,” he says. “You can’t take your shirt off in public until I tell you, okay?”

Dean nods.

“Say the words.”

“Okay, Daddy. I won’t.” 

John lays flat on Dean’s back, wraps one arm around the boy’s neck, curls the other over his head and fucks until both he and Dean groan through his release.

 

***

 

They’re Dean’s marker’s now. Daddy said so. And when Sam tries to take one while he’s drawing He-Man, Dean hops onto his feet and screams, “Give that back, you fucking little…”

He searches for the right mean word, but Sam has already dropped the marker. And his dad is chuckling. Dean must be doing good.

He remembers now and snarls. "Bitch."


	40. Chapter 40

At this time of night, the neighborhood porch lights that aren’t busted are dimly shining. The mosquito killer next door buzzes and snaps as another bug meets its doom. 

It doesn’t require much brainpower to dump the trash. In fact, John is distracted - dreaming up his next date as he hums down the sidewalk with the can. Liner bags are a waste of money, energy and time.

The pater familias of the adjoined duplex steps onto his porch in his sleeveless shirt and jeans all torn to hell. He lights up his smoke and gives John a cursory nod. There’s no exchanging names and phone numbers like on their block in Lawrence. Hell, Mary had given house keys to three separate people as protection from being locked out. 

These folks in Lenore have a quiet, hard-working dignity. And they mind their own fucking business. It’s John’s favorite thing about the place. Maybe it’s because John and his boys are renters that no one invites them to cookouts. His greedy piglet, Dean, always comments about the smells, but they are unknown here and that’s how John likes it.

As he dumps the can’s contents into the dumpster, a few items scatter onto the sidewalk. He swears and bends to pick up the cereal box, beer cans and a pair of Dean’s Superman underwear.

They stink like shit. The boy knows better than to throw away clothes. Even if he streaks his shorts, they can be washed. 

But this ain’t a skid mark.

These underwear are caked with blood and a sizable glob of poop. More than would come from not wiping well. Basically, Dean sharted blood and tried to hide it.

Jesus Christ. Why wouldn’t he say something? John asks daily whether he hurts. Dean always shakes his head and turns those big, green eyes up at him. 

John wipes his clean hand down his face and tosses the underwear. They really are done for. This mess explains why the boy always wants a shower first. 

They’ve been fucking for over two years. Sometimes twice a day. John is the luckiest man in the galaxy, but nothing is forever. He’ll have to tone down the frequency. Once a week, maybe. Every couple of days. And while he’s at it, John could go a little easier on the boy. Sometimes, he gets carried away. It’s so fucking good to have what he’s always wanted in the bedroom. 

There are still things he dreams that he wouldn’t dare… 

He could explain to his son that lovers don’t keep secrets like this. John would never want to hurt him, and if he’d known, he would be more careful and gentle and use more ‘goo’ as Dean calls it. 

The little stinker loves to play with the lube before and John’s cum after. He watches it solidify between his fingers into an even stickier mess. He even asked once if they could keep some, although he still doesn’t love to eat it. That’ll change. 

When John comes in, Dean is still on his belly in front of the sofa, drawing. He puts down the can and shuts the door. 

“Daddy, look.”

John was already looking.   
Everything is so good. Now, to mess with perfection. 

Dean grunts as he does one full pushup before collapsing onto his face. He hops onto his knees, awaiting praise.   
   
“That was … wow.” John smiles and assumes a fighting stance. “Let’s see your front kick.”

The boy bounces into position and throws a few puny kicks. John launches a cautious one of his own and Dean blocks it perfectly.

“Hey! That was great. You’re fucking amazing, you know that?”

Dean beams and pokes his freckled nose right to the ceiling, already puckering for the kiss he knows is coming. It’s the most adorable turn-on.

Still holding his chin, John asks, “What do you think we should do tonight, while Sam is having his sleepover?”

Dean shrugs. 

“You don’t know?”

Dean nibbles the corner of his smirk and shakes his head. Tasty little tease. 

At the tender age of nine, Dean has learned a marketable skill. He takes a dick like a professional. Dean bends, stretches, contorts and folds to his father’s will. He can bounce and moan and beg and scratch his nails down his father’s back while John sucks on his neck and empties inside of him, always sooner than he’d planned to. 

But John will not fuck him. Not tonight.   
There are still things they haven’t done. Liberties John hasn’t allowed himself.

“You want to learn something new?”

Dean shifts his weight onto one hip and crosses his arms. “Okay.” 

He always says yes. It’s such a gift that the boy loves to be fucked and sucked and touched, because John would have him either way. He picks his boy up around the middle and carries him into the bathroom. John sits on the edge of the tub with his hands on Dean’s waist, twisting him gently left and right. 

“You want to dance for me?”

Dean grimaces, but it quickly bursts into a smile covered with both hands.

“You do, don’t you?” John draws him close enough to smooch his nose. “Good. Let me see you.”

“What are you going to sing?” Dean asks.

“Whatever you want.”

He inspects his fingernails, bouncing one of his skinny knees. “That one. You know.”

“No, tell me.” John buries his face in the boy’s neck, takes a deep inhale of stinky boy sweat.

“Feel like makin’?”

“Feel like makin’,” John repeats and crushes the boy in his arms. 

He kisses Dean, tongue sliding around his wonderful mouth, wiggling one loose tooth and then, the other. 

“Yeah, I’ll sing that baby,” John breathes the words against Dean’s lips and hums the opening riff. 

At first, John sways Dean’s hips for him, back and forth, slowly to the rhythm. 

Darlin’   
when I think about you  
I think about love  
Darlin’  
Don’t want to live without you   
And your love

Dean’s wound up now. John can let go and he’ll keep waving, gliding in perpetual motion, letting his head swing looser and looser. Until his eyes slip shut, lips fall open like he’s in a trance.   
John perches, cock expanding to the edge of bursting. His chest swells to the peak of shouting his love. But instead, he’s nearly whispering, barely holding the tune:

I feel like makin’  
I feel like makin’ love  
I feel like makin’ love  
Feel like makin’ love to you

His voice trails off in a final, aching wisp. In the silence, Dean opens his eyes and demands to hear the rest.  
John shakes his head, curls his arms around his boy, Dean’s AC/DC shirt soaking up tears.

“Dad?”

Dad.  
It’s the price of school. Over the last year, John has stopped being Daddy, not just around Dean’s cool fourth-grade friends. At home, too. He could insist Dean call him Daddy still. But doesn’t want him to be weird. Can’t let him stand out. Seem too attached. 

The boy gets into the occasional scrap like boys will do. He’s no stellar student, but otherwise, he’s a run of the mill American kid: trying to fit in. Trying to outgrow his daddy, who couldn’t let him go right now if both of their lives depended on it. 

“Dad, you okay?”

“I’m fine, son.” John huffs out what sounds like a laugh. “Hands up, you scumbag.”

Dean chuckles, lifts his arms and lets his dad peel off his shirt. He also lets John poke a finger into his navel, and tickle his ribs, although he curls up like a giggling armadillo for that one. 

“Stand up straight. Come on. Let me see you.”

With his fingers jammed into his armpits for safety, Dean stands upright and blinks under his father’s scrutiny. John lowers Dean’s arms to his sides and licks one, then the other nipple. He waits for his reward. 

Dean shudders, exhales and licks his lips. 

“You want it?”

Dean blinks and nods. 

“Ask.”

This is always the hardest part for him. Enchanting to watch. Dean glances at the mirror, the towels. He struggles against his father’s hold on his arms. Then his hips careen forward as he whines, “Daaad.”

“Ask me for it, Dean.”

After another full minute of reluctance, he grumbles. “Please.”

“Please, what?”

“Please, just do it.”

“What is it you want me to do?” John smiles.

Every single time, they go through this, as if John isn’t dying to give him what he wants.

“Would you, please… put it in your mouth?”

“Look at me.”

It takes a moment before his lashes flutter and his eyes drop from the ceiling to meet John’s gaze. 

“Good,” John says. “Now, say it again. Use the right. word.”

“Please suck me, Dad?”

“Not suck.”

“Blow me. Please.” 

The words light every candle in John’s cold, hard heart. Of course, he’ll blow his boy. With great gusto and interminable pleasure. 

John helps him out of his pants. Smiles at the little pecker, no bigger than his own middle finger, but coming along. He flicks it, can’t help teasing. Can’t help enjoying the miserable longing on Dean’s face. 

“Please?” 

Dean begs as if John has ever denied him. 

John slides to the floor with his head leaned back against the tub. He grabs Dean’s hips like handles and draws him close enough to engulf the stiff, little dick as well as his nut-sized nuts. In that instance, Dean’s arms close around his head and the boy thrusts. If it weren’t so hot, it would be hilarious. He grinds away at John’s face, fast and hard, panting and whining.

John palms his ass, moaning himself, dreaming and longing for the day when Dean has something to shoot down his throat. For now, it’s dry humps to a quick finish.

Dean slumps over his head, heaving breath, sounding almost like sobs. This is his rapture. John knows well what he’s given his boy. He stands to watch him tremble and moan. Finally, when Dean recovers, his shoulders still rising with each inhale, he looks up at his father and whispers, “Thank you.”

Such good manners. John ruffles his hair. Kisses him and undresses. 

“Ready for your lesson?”

Dean nods. 

John pulls him into the shower, turns on the water and laughs at his squealing reaction to the cold spray. Dean hunches up against his father, but John shoves him under. Once the water is warm, he lathers and scrubs his boy. Pays special attention to his hole, although he won’t be entering tonight. He’s made a vow to himself. Dean deserves a rest. 

His hairless skin is quick and easy to wash, unlike John’s fur-covered body. Dean accepts his cleaning duties with a stern concentration: scrubs his father’s chest, his rock-solid dick, both legs and feet. John bows so Dean can reach his back. He gets onto his knees to let the boy wash his hair, grinning at the proud focus on Dean’s face.

“Hey, big boy.”

He hates to be called that, now. Can sense the facetious tone in his father’s voice. 

“Your hoodlum friends talk about rimming?”

“They’re not—”

“No lip.”

Dean shuts up and shakes his head. 

“Well, you already know what it is, but I’m going to show you how to do it. Okay?”

Dean nods and blinks the water out of his eyes. His wet hair is plastered to his forehead, dripping down his nose. John wipes it aside and revels in his gorgeous, earnest face for a moment. A chaste peck and then he says, “First thing you’re going to do is clean Daddy… Dad.”

“You’re all clean.”

“Missed a spot, didn’t you?”

John’s let him wash before, but never his ass to be sure it’s done right. And to be honest, maybe because John never imagined himself bending over for anyone. 

Tonight, he hands his elder son the soap again and rests his elbows on his knees. Like he’s about to snap a ball. 

Dean appears frozen.

“Clean my ass, son.”

No thaw.

“Now, Dean.”

“Dad.”

It never fails. The boy’s pigheadedness can rear its head at the most inopportune times. Here John is, prostrating himself, being as vulnerable as he’s ever been with anyone, and Dean is holding back. 

He stands, wraps a hand around Dean’s throat, pins his back to the cold tile. He heaves in each breath, instantly livid. “Is this going to be a problem?”

Dean shakes his head.  

“You sure?”

“No, Dad.”

It takes John a moment to calm himself enough to pinch Dean’s chin and kiss him hard. Once again, he assumes the position. 

Dean’s hand is small and careful, first washing John’s left ass cheek in tiny concentric circles. There’s nothing remotely sexual about it but John cock is gently weeping. 

“Get to it.”

Dean pussyfoots about the business a while longer, taking a full five minutes to lather and rinse before he delves slightly into the cleft of John’s ass.

“Come on, son, my back’s starting to hurt.”

Dean’s fingers slides into the crevice and John catches his wrist, ushering the fingers up and down over his hole. Unwilling to wait any longer, he finishes the job himself. 

“Do you know when Daddy’s birthday is?”

Dean’s eyes go wide and he shakes his head like he can’t believe his father was born. 

“It’s today.”

“Today?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh.”

“You going to do something special for me?”

“Of course.”

“You’re going to suck my cock, son.”

Dean looks confused, probably because cock sucking is about as routine as it gets between the Winchester men. 

“Then you’re going to eat me out.”

Before Dean can inquire, John wrestles him to his knees. No soft, careful guidance required anymore. Dean knows what’s coming, and he braces for it. Opens his mouth, relaxes his throat and takes half of John’s cock like a miracle. 

“That’s it. Look at my baby. Making your daddy so proud. God damn it, look how you’re taking this dick, Dean.”

John wraps both hands around his skull and drives in. At the slightest hint of teeth, he responds with a stern smack. The jaw drops wider and Dean gags.

“That’s it. Choke on it, baby.”

Dean pulls back, coughs and wipes his mouth. 

“You get better every time.”

Dean nods and goes back to work. Whether he wants the cock or wants to please doesn’t matter. He’s clay in his father’s hands, taking this dick like a porn star. Just before John can shoot down his throat, he stops himself and bends over again. 

“Lick me, boy.”

Again, frozen Dean.

“Come on. Daddy licks your asshole all the time. Don’t you want to be nice to me, too? For my birthday?”

It’s not even a lie. John rarely mentions or celebrates but this is what he wants. It’s all he wants, and he’s going to fucking have it. Even if he has to cuff Dean across the head a few times to get him in gear. 

The first time that warm, wet tongue slides over his hole, it’s worth it. 

“Holy fuck.”

Until now, John has only seen how Dean’s reaction to having his boypussy licked. Now, John feels why he writhes and begs for more. It’s liquid electricity in his veins. He reaches back, closes a palm around Dean’s neck and draws him closer.

“Come on. Get that tongue in there.”

Dean’s words muffle against his ass, but it sounds like he’s saying he can’t.

“You’re not fucking trying. Lick it, Dean. Come on. Just like Dad does it for you.”

Between John’s jutting and pulling, he drags the boy’s face deeper until that tongue is his and the intense pleasure ripples out from his ass over his whole shivering body. 

“Fuck, yeah. Eat that ass, boy. Then I’ll let you go.”

No motivator like suffocation. Dean licks for all he’s worth, a hand on each cheek, simultaneously pushing back against the hand on his head. John finally lets him go and Dean falls back against the floor of the tub, snivelling.

“Good job.” 

John lifts the boy onto his chest, licking into his mouth, purging his own flavor from his tongue. Entirely by accident, John’s finger passes over Dean’s hole. 

He’d only intended to hold the boy close, to feel his growing weight in his arms, but here they are. The angle is so perfect. John maneuvers Dean so his knees are slung over his arms. Pelvis wide open. 

Two fingers, one from each hand, play at his entrance, pulling him farther apart. John’s dick is already in position. It would more difficult not to enter him. 

But there’s no lube. 

“Dad?”

Even Dean is thinking it. 

There’s soap, which might burn.  
There’s spit, which might help.  
And then, there’s curiosity. 

John aligns himself and yanks the boy down until he’s wailing and thrashing on the end of John’s dick. The combined sensations of his dry, clenched hole, his useless struggles to escape John’s arms, and his anguished cries are a symphony of pleasure, unlike any time they’ve been together. 

The water is losing its heat, but John Winchester is just getting started. He carries his son to the bedroom, tosses him onto the bed, ignoring the trickle of blood on Dean’s thigh as he pounces. John has already learned that blood makes for an interesting lube. But it doesn’t make Dean quieter.

The screaming penetrates Poppa’s bones. He clasps a hand over Dean’s mouth, soaking the sound into his skin. Sam’s in his nightly Benadryl-induced stupor. And the neighbors mind their own business. They got no right to say a word, the way that man terrorizes his wife and kids.

John muffles Dean’s pleas because he can. 

“Please, what?”

“Not so hard, please. Dad, please.” 

Dean is crying now.

No tough-guy act. No big, proud, fourth-grade exterior. He’s just his Daddy’s baby with a furious cock thundering into his ass. 

John has learned to pace himself. So it’s an hour later when he tosses himself onto his back, sweaty and winded. He kisses Dean’s hand and closes his eyes to catch his breath. Happy birthday to the king.

“I love you, son.” 

Dean’s breath hitches and catches in his throat. His voice is raspy when he says, “Love you, too, Daddy.


	41. Chapter 41

Tasha runs across the blacktop and taps Dean’s arm. When he doesn’t chase her, she turns with her hands on her hips.

“What?” Dean spits.

“Jordan said you’re It.”

“I’m not It. Leave me alone.”

She shrugs and runs away leaving Dean to draw in the dirt with a stick. 

How is he going to be It when it hurts to walk or sit? Not just his ass. His everything hurts from being stuck folded up like a pretzel until his dad got good and finished. Sometimes the stuff they do is nice. Sometimes, it sucks.

But he can’t run because there’s nowhere to go. And he can’t leave Sam behind. 

Dean’s friends scream and play. He sits down and keeps digging, leaning on his hip to keep the weight off his butt. A few minutes before the bell, Jordan runs over and taps the back of Dean’s head. Dean slaps the back of his leg. The giggling fool tags him again. 

“I’m not fucking It.”

Dean rises and tags Jordan back, in the nose, with his fist.

He’s a regular in Mrs. Mayhew’s office. In-school suspension is no big deal. And everybody already knows that Dean’s dad isn’t coming to talk about what happened. They can’t even give Dean detention because he has to pick up his little brother from pre-school.

Jordan doesn’t try that crap again. 

 

***

 

“New game,” Dad says and kneels beside Sam’s cot. 

In the half-light, Dean’s eyes flick between Dad and his sleeping brother. Sam has rolled over the sheet trails the floor, exposing his scrawny chest and the elastic of his second-butt Spiderman undies. His mouth is open, hair plastered to the sweat on his face.

“What do you like best?”

Dean freezes as if his father has asked him to eat his brother.

“Just a question,” Dad whispers. “What’s your favorite part of the body?”

He called it a game, but it’s not very fun. There’s no way to know the right answer, so Dean remains silent. He can’t predict his dad’s actions. Can’t control them. His breath is shallow as he braces for something bad without knowing what the worst would be.

“Well, I like…”

Dean’s entire body tenses as his father’s hand floats over Sam. It hovers above his belly button.

“This right here. Let me see yours.”

Dad doesn’t touch Sam. He dips a finger in Dean’s navel. It’s a surprise and it tickles. Dean flinches. His dad laughs. 

Sam snorts and stirs, but it’s okay. It really is just a game. Dad’s eyes are big and he puts a finger over his mouth. Shhhh. They’re just playing with Sammy.  

It’s an easy question. Dean points to his brother’s closed eyes. There’s blue and gold and green behind his closed lids. He almost touches the long lashes. 

“Yeah. He does have pretty eyes.” Dad smile suddenly vanishes. “You want to kiss him, don’t you?”

“What? No.”

“Yes, you do. Look at his mouth.” Dad grabs Dean’s neck. “Do what I said. Look at him. Touch his lips.”

“He’s going to wake up.”

“Then he’ll get to kiss you back.”

“Dad.”

“Or I could break you both. Bash your little skulls together and make brain paste.”

He isn’t kidding.   
It wouldn’t be awful to kiss Sam. His lips are so pink. He’ll probably just keep sleeping. He’ll never know.   
But is it a trick?

Dean turns up his nose. Pretends Sam yucks him out. “I only want to kiss you, Dad.”

John runs his tongue back and forth over his teeth for a moment before he drags Dean close, mashes their mouths together and sucks the blood he’s brought to Dean’s lip. 

Then, he sits on the edge of the cot and yanks Dean over his knee. Yanks down his underwear. Spanks him right there. 

Dean doesn’t even let himself gasp. The only sound in the room is his father’s hand swatting his bare butt.

“You do what I say? Got it.”

“Yes, Dad,” Dean grits between his teeth. 

“Say it.”

“Idowhatyousay.”

His dad sticks two fingers into Sam’s mouth. Asking him to stop would just make it worse. Dean shuts his eyes as his dad jams those wet fingers into his burning ass. 

Dean clamps down on his shout. As long as Sam sleeps through this, it’s okay. 

“Getting too big for your britches, huh?”

“No, Dad.”

The smacks sting pretty bad now, and they keep coming. Dean arches his back, clenches his butt.

“You’re making it worse on yourself.”

They had this school-wide assembly at school about Good Touch and Bad Touch. Dean sat there the whole time with his jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth. It’s different because his father takes care of him, makes him feel good, sometimes. He’d never really hurt Dean. 

Dean’s dad loves him.

He finally removes his fingers from Dean’s stinging butthole and shoves him onto the floor.

See? It’s over and it wasn’t so bad. 

 

***

The following morning, John enters the living room. “Hey, boy.”

“Yes, Dad,” Dean says, looking up from his drawing.

“You’re too big. I need Sam.”

Sam looks up from his book. 

“Gym time.”

Sam glances at Dean as John drops for push-ups.

“You have to go on his back.”

Sam hesitates a moment before climbing up. He’s lighter than Dean was at five. Or maybe John has been using Dean so long that a lighter body feels almost too easy.

He manages thirty-five pushups before fatigue. Then, he stands for his squats. Sam holds on too tight around his neck. John adjusts his arms and does sixty reps before his quads shake.

Three cycles with his new equipment. Better than a gym membership. Almost good as boot camp.


	42. Chapter 42

Dean’s getting rangy. He’s mostly skinny legs. That’s nice at night, clamped tight around John’s waist. 

A woman guides her toddler onto the playground and within a matter of minutes, Dean is chatting them up, helping the little one down the slide. Man of the people. 

Sam, on the other hand, is still covered in baby’s fat. He adamantly keeps to his secluded corner of the playground. If anyone wanders near, he quietly retreats to a new spot. 

Gone is the bane of John’s parenthood. When no one was looking, Sam has grown into a self-possessed, princely five-year-old fellow. 

“Dad,” Dean yells. “Watch this.”

The mother and her daughter are already applauding his primate antics: knees hooked over the monkey bars, arms hanging down. Dean swings up, does a twist and flip. A sportsman and a showoff. 

John claps twice and his ashes drop into the dry grass. 

Sam is gathering mulch into piles, creating a fortress around himself.   
Seriously, when did he get so pretty? Must have happened overnight. 

John wanders over and squats beside him.

“What you making, buddy?”

Sam squints up, searches around, as if his father must be talking to someone else. Either that, or he’s looking for Dean.

“You scared to tell Daddy?” John asks, mostly as a joke. 

Sam takes a deep breath, staring at his father’s eyes, waiting for something horrible to happen. John strokes his hair.

“It’s okay,” he says. “You can tell me.”

As Sam’s lips part, Dean grabs John’s wrist.

“Come on. I want to show you what I can do,” he says.

John sucks his teeth and stands. He glances back at the angel in the dirt. Then he follows the circus act. 

“All right. Let’s see what you got.”


	43. Chapter 43

It’s hot and muggy out beyond the double doors, but it’s free air. Dean takes a deep breath and skips down the steps. 

The office ladies ganged up on him big time. They called Sam’s nerd school and arranged a playdate for Sam so Dean could have an ‘intervention.’ Cops came and everything, yacking about juvenile detention and prison and blah blah. If his dad knew about it, he’d crack skulls, starting with Dean’s. 

But he’s at work until late most days. And Dean’s got another hour to kill before it’s time to pick up Sam from Jamie’s house. The kid is still weird in big groups, but wherever they go, he always finds a nerdy friend. 

The high school guys on the basketball court play shirtless. That’s dedication in this soup. Dean’s got just enough energy to spread himself out on the bench and watch. Two middle school girls glance over from the next bench. 

They keep peeking over, whispering about him. If they ask, he’ll say 13, and they’ll totally believe it. He could say even older, but then he’d seem like a runt, which isn’t good either. Truth is, he’s ten, but it’s not like they’ll check his ID.

He rolls the cigarette between his fingers, partially for the girls’ entertainment, part for his own. It’s his ration. The one smoke he allows himself to steal per day. He has to wait until just the right time to smoke it. Sometimes before school, if there’s a test or something. Sometimes after, when it’s been an annoying day. 

Right now, he just toys with it.

Smoking is supposed to be one of those Just Say No things, but Dean can see why his dad does it.   
It took practice, but those long breaths in and long breaths out, that burn and pull at the center of his chest. It’s a good pain.

No one else around him does it and he doesn’t try to convince them to. They’re all babies. 

Somebody’s yelling on the other side of the building. Dean ignores it at first. After a while, though, curiosity makes him hoists himself to his feet and check it out. 

It’s about like he expected: four big kids, maybe high schoolers, beating the crap out of some scrawny kid. He doesn’t look like Sam, but that’s who Dean thinks of, the way he’s hugging his backpack and allowing them to shove him around. 

“Hey,” Dean yells. 

The big kids look. To the little guy’s credit, he tries to run. One of them catches him and holds him close.

“This your girlfriend?”

Dean has never seen the boy in his life. Dark skin. Terrified face.

“Just leave him alone.” 

“Fuck off, hotshot.”

Dean spits on the end of his cigarette and sticks it in his back pocket. 

He’s a better fighter, but there are four of them. He gets in a few solid punches, but one of them pins his arms behind his back and so end the heroics.

Another asshole pummels his belly until Dean coughs up blood. His insides bubble and boil, guts threatening to come up as he crumbles to his knees. The hurt is so loud he can’t even hear what they’re shouting as they exchange high fives and walk away. He shuts his eyes and waits. It only takes a few seconds for things to shift. 

The sharp ache becomes a dull, dark thud in his middle. Almost good, like butterscotch. Dean smiles. Then he laughs. The laughter hurts his ribs, and he laughs even louder. This is it. The best part. If those pussies thought they could hurt him they have no fucking idea.

Still on his knees, he reaches back for his smoke. The other pocket houses his stolen Zippo. He takes three long drags before he offers it to the other boy. He’s been laying at Dean’s left side all along, sobbing likefour-year-oldold girl. 

The kid looks doubtful, but he takes the smoke between his thumb and forefinger and has a deep drag.

“Don’t cough,” Dean says. “Hold it. Just hold it.”

The kid’s cheeks puff up like he’s going to explode.

“If you fucking cough, I’ll beat you myself. Hold it.” Once the kid is stable, Dean smiles. “Now, out through your nose.”

Fine trails of smoke flow out and the kid smiles, too.

“Good, right?”

“Burns.”

“Gets better.”

Dean takes it back, has a few more puffs before he sits and leans back on his elbows, pain singing all over his midsection. He trails a finger over a small gash on the boy’s cheek. His mouth falls open and Dean kisses him, mostly because he can. A quick one, on the mouth, with a flicker of tongue. He chuckles to himself and then has another drag. 

“How old are you?”

Dean grins and lays back on the asphalt, puffing smoke clouds at the sky with a hand tucked under his head. He’s a hundred thousand years old. As old as the air and the dirt. There was never a time he wasn’t old. 

Eventually, the kid stands and dusts off his jeans. “Do you want to come have dinner or something?”

“Got to get my brother.”

The kid shifts his feet, kicking at the dirt like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “My name is Derrick.”

“Have a good dinner, Derrick.”

And a nice life. Now, scurry along. 

Eventually, Dean walks between the big fancy houses, fantasizes about battering windshields until he arrives at the front steps of Sam’s buddy’s house.  He rings the doorbell and sucks on his scabbing knuckles while he waits. Sam comes out of the front door and immediately asks, “What the hell happened?”

He looks up at Mrs. NerdMama and tries to swallow his tongue. Luckily, she’s more interested in Dean’s face than Sam’s language.

“My goodness,” she says, trying to touch Dean. “Did someone hurt you?”

He evades her attempts, mumbles that he’s fine and takes his little brother by the wrist. Sam waves and shouts thank you as Dean drags him down the walkway. Once they’re a good distance away, he stops and asks, “How bad is it?”

Sam’s wince says enough.


	44. Chapter 44

John’s lounging on the sofa, legs spread, hand in his lap, not yet palming his dick, but thinking about it. His boys come in chattering. They immediately freeze and fall silent at the door.  

It’s 6. They’re not supposed to stay after school, or go to people’s houses. What they didn’t know was that their dear old dad would be home early this evening. For a moment, they hover, waiting for an explosion. John looks up from his third beer, but doesn’t speak. 

Their caution is wise. He’s been volatile lately. Probably like living with a tiger. He smiles to himself as they skirt the edges of the room to avoid coming into his direct line of sight. To attack, John would have to leave his seat. That’s not going to happen, but it’s good they’re scared. 

“What happened to your face?” John asks although he knows full well. 

Dean is a fist magnet. Throws his weight around wherever he can. Often with bigger kids. He’s gotten right tough in his old age of not quite eleven. Of course, he doesn’t try any crap with John.   
In bed, Dean is as pliant and obedient as ever, but there’s an almost imperceptible change. He’s not a kid anymore.

“Everything cool?” Dean asks, inching in front of Sam “Are we leaving or something?”

There’s no explanation for why the tinny pitch and squeak in his changing voice should grate John’s nerves, except that everything is under his skin these days. There’s a constant itch.   
It’s a pain in the ass when there’s no work. He hates it even more when there is work. The hammering and sawing, repetitive, predictable. Makes John want to break something. Shatter the monotony. 

He starts scrapes at work. He fights in the bar. He comes home and takes it out on the boys. This isn’t a lifestyle. It’s hardly an existence. Day to day. No purpose. How do people live like this? What he needs is to hunt again. John felt alive looking for that demon, slaying monsters along the way. That was a worthy life. 

 “Should I make dinner?”

John’s eyes snap to Dean. “Yeah, go ahead.”

Usually, the boy makes cold cut sandwiches and chips. Tonight, Dean gets fancy with ground beef he must have stolen. John didn’t buy it. 

What’s supposed to be a treat is a huge fucking fiasco. Grease-sopped Wonder bread with a hockey puck. John shoves the plate away and doesn’t need to tell Dean what shit it is. 

How on earth Sam is eating it is beyond comprehension. Except that those two are always up each other’s asses. Always have been. 

And Sam takes up as little space as possible, keeps his mouth shut, does whatever’s expected. Doesn’t cry anymore, hardly ever. Dresses himself, wipes his own ass. He’s become quite the trooper. 

Pink mouth, thinner lips than Dean’s but still pretty as hell. Dark hair flopping over his eyes. John lets his boys get away with these hippy haircuts because they’d worn crewcuts in the last town. Good to mix it up.

Regardless, Sam’s one cute little fucker. And John’s not hungry for burgers, anyway. There’s something else at this table he could devour whole in one gulp.

He wets his lips, takes Sam’s fork from his hand. Huge hazel eyes look up at him. Dean’s right. They are gorgeous.

“Let Daddy do it,” John says. “Say ah.”

Sam opens his mouth, just a little.

“Come on. Big Ah.”

John feeds him the bread and charred meat slop. Then, he slides in a finger. “Did you swallow it? Show me.”

In an instant, there’s a hand on his chin. Dean drawing John’s face to look at him. 

Without breaking the eye contact, Dean says, “Sammy, you’re done. Go play.”

It’s not his place, but Dean has always thought he’s Sam’s mother. John’s breathing hard through his nose, but he lets Dean get away with it. The chair scrapes out, Sam takes his plate to the sink and climbs on the stepping stool to wash it. 

“Leave it,” Dean barks.

John says, “Come here, Sam.”

Sam glances between them, but walks around the table to his father. John pats his face, wipes the hair back from his eyes, and chuckles. 

“Let me see you make a muscle.” He lifts one of his scrawny arms. John smiles and pinches the skinny bicep. “That’s good. You touch your toes?”

Sam stoops and John pulls him up by the hips so that he’s bent at the waist. Dean is practically shaking, squeezing the life out of a butter knife, jaw clenched. John snickers and smacks Sam’s ass.

“Get outta here.”

Once it’s just the two of them, Dean exhales loudly and sits back in his chair.  Still a stunning little fucker himself, but he’s changed. School or aging has changed him. It’s as if John married a super model who’s letting her squishy thighs rub together, belly get all mushy.

Not that Dean is soft. Ten years old and not an ounce of fat. He’s wiry and tall for his age. Ballsy, like his dad and slightly less intelligent. Then again, John used to take on stronger, bigger opponents all the time, and win. 

He respects his son for it and sits back in his chair, sucking his teeth. 

“Your burgers are shit.”

“Why do you want Sam?”

“You’re crazy.” 

They’ve been having a version of this conversation for weeks, though never quite this direct. Usually, Dean catches John’s eye wandering, leaps in front of his brother and drags his father into the bedroom. 

“Listen, I’ve told you this before,” John says. “If you think Sam is half as beautiful as you are you’re out of your mind. That’s not just me talking. You can ask anybody.”

Dean chews his tongue, doesn’t argue.

“How could I want him when I have you? Huh?” John grins. “But I like your jealousy. It’s cute.”

Dean has been his wife for years. And a better, more compliant partner than Mary ever was. How can John explain that a man needs new territory to conquer? Sam would be the perfect mistress. It wouldn’t have to change their marriage. That’s what John could never explain to Mary, but maybe Dean could understand.

“You have to admit, he’s got a little bubble butt.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not kidding. You telling me you don’t want to get in there? Didn’t you say you wanted to try fucking something?”

Dean doesn’t seem surprised, but his elbows are on the table again. “Dad. He’s too little.” 

“Bigger than you were our first time. You remember that? You were so fucking tiny. God, I just wanted to cum all over you. Let you float in it.”

“That’s gross.”

John snickers. “Seriously, Dean. Look at him sometimes. The boy is hot as hell. And I’m willing to share.”

He hadn’t even thought of that possibility until now. John and Dean spit-roasting Sam, swapping, passing him back and forth. John has always wondered what Sam was born for. Why has it taken him so long to see it?

“Why shouldn’t I have you both?” he asks. “Hasn’t it been good with us, Dean?

Dean blinks, resists, but then nods.

“Yeah. Of course, it has.” John takes his hand and kisses it. “Don’t you want Sam to have that, too?”

“No.”

“Selfish?”

“Maybe.”

“What if Sam wants it? Like you do.”

“He doesn’t,” Dean insists. “Okay? Just… please.”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

“I do.”

“Swear.”

John smiles. “Dean.”

“Just swear, Dad. On mom. You leave him alone and you can do anything to me you want.”

As if that wasn’t the case already.

“I love you, you know that.” John takes his earnest little deal-maker into his lap and kisses his cheek. “Sam is… he’s gotten cute, but he’s not my first-born, Dean. He’s not my first love. I’d do anything for you. You know, I’d kill Sam for you. If you wanted —”

“Don’t say that.” Dean jumps from his father’s arms. “Why would you say that?”

“I’m just telling you.”

“Just leave him alone.”

Dean tries to storm away, but John catches him around the middle. The sharing Sam fantasy has taken root. He’s hard and ready to go. 

He stands, slowly walking Dean toward the sofa as he whispers against the boy’s scalp, “You want me to leave him alone?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what you want, baby?”

“Yes,” Dean whines, letting his father guide him, gripping the arm around his chest.

For a while, John thought it was Dean’s size, maturity and confidence that were turning him off the boy. Can’t very well tell a precocious 10-year-old to act like he’s in first grade, although Dean would try if John asked. And that’s the problem.

He’s not too big. He’s too willing. 

He sheds his pants without being told, pulls down John’s and goes straight to his knees, slurping and bobbing like he’s being paid. He gags, apologizes and only gives himself a moment to recover before he’s choking on it again. It’s grown tedious how much he wants it. John could tell him to fight, but that’s not the same.

“I’ll go get the—”

John catches Dean’s arm. “You don’t need it.”

He’s less enthusiastic without the lube, but still climbs onto his dad’s lap, holds his cock in place and slowly lowers himself. Mouth wide, eyes shut. What a fucking pretty kid. John touches his face. Then he looks down at Dean’s little prick, pointing at him. He grabs his hips and slams him all the way down. 

Dean shouts in pain and protest. Wears this shocked and betrayed expression. John clamps onto his nipple and Dean’s arms close around his head. 

He bounces on his knees, panting, chanting, “Fuck fuck fuck.”

John pulls apart his cheeks and adds a finger. 

“Ow, Dad. That’s too much.”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” John holds him aloft and pumps up. “You want me fuck you, right?”

“Yeah. Just…”

John shoves him aside, rearranges Dean onto his knees, leaning over the arm of the sofa, his frail ass skyward. His hole is already gaping. He lifts one leg so Dean looks like a male dog about to piss.

John’s been casing playgrounds again. Choosing his favorite boy and beating off behind his steering wheel. He thinks of the one he saw yesterday. A Latin boy with huge brown eyes. What if John could get that tiny ass in this position?

He punches into Dean again like he’s trying to force his way through the front. 

“Dad. Fuck.”

John is going to fuck him all right. He’s going to leave him in a pile on the floor. John clutches his hipbones, hammering away, ignoring the small hands clasping his wrists. 

“Dad, take it easy.”

“Come on. You want it.”

John shoves him to his knees on the filthy carpet and drives into his mouth. Dean pulls off to cough. John holds his chin tight, hawks and spits onto his tongue. Then he shoves in again, hard, deep, clutching the back of Dean’s skull. His lip is busted, eye starting to swell. 

“You’ve been fighting again.”

Dean tries to shake his head. He gags and pulls off. “Not fighting… Someone… picking on this kid.”

“I told you to quit fighting,” John growls. “You don’t fucking listen.”

Punishing Dean offers the relief he needs. It’s not quite Sam, or some other new boy, but it sends the fire flaring through him like their first times together. 

John steps back. Dean scuttles onto the sofa, wiping his face.

“I love you, Daddy.”

“Of course you do.” John plucks his little boner and drives into this mouth again. “That’s it. Fucking take this.”

Dean grips the wrist choking him. Tries to peel up the thumb. His face is reddening. He moans around the mouthful of dick. John once promised himself not to hurt his son, but why not? If the boy comes begging for it, he can be man enough to take what his father dishes.

The knob turns and by instinct, John shoves Dean away. Sam stands in the open doorway, staring, apologetic. He knows better than to come in without knocking.

It isn’t really a thought. It’s more of a power surge. Like a lion who’s been eating steak and suddenly a gazelle prances by. John lunges for the boy. As he’s leaping, Dean catches his ankle. John flies forward, arms flailing. The floor rushes up to meet his face.


	45. Chapter 45

When John gets through with that little shit, Dean might miss a few days of school while the bruises heal. Not bones. John has to be deliberate and not lose his temper. Broken bones equal red flags. Properly placed bruises could have happened falling off a bike. In any case, John will hurt him good.

The boy has mistaken John’s favor for a free pass. It’s time for a new code of law.

John sits on the sofa, hands clasped in his lap, counting the ways to harm a boy. His tongue slides over the front tooth that chipped when his face bashed against the side of the coffee table. The bloody t-shirt is in the trash bin, but there’s dark puddle soaking through the carpet. When Dean gets back, John’ll rub his face in it like a naughty puppy.

For starters.

Then, a spanking with Sam watching. Followed by a longer, harder beating for Sammy-baby. If Dean peeps, John’ll add ten licks onto Sam’s helping. 

Once the little one’s a sniveling heap, John will have at Dean again, in every sense of the word. They’ll be lucky if he uses a belt instead of his fist. Or his cock instead of a fist.   
The boy better prepare for hellfire. 

It’s damn near midnight when Dean finally knocks. Six goddamn hours after they left their father in a pool of his own blood,  John hasn’t moved. He’s been waiting, like a leopard, to pounce.

Another knock. The stupid little asshole must have left his keys. John ought to let him stand out there all night. The only reason he stands is to let the punishment unfold. He smiles as he swings open the door.  
A silver badge flashes. 

“John Winchester?”

The seconds crawl by in slow motion, thoughts flowing with crystal clarity. Before the word “arrest” reaches the air, John Winchester darts across the room, dives onto the sofa like he’s going for a tackle in Marine ball. 

He always keeps a gun under his pillow, one behind the toilet, and one stowed between the couch cushions. Will he end  himself or the cop? Doesn’t matter. He just needs that steel, that power in his grip. When he points, they’ll shoot.

Goodbye soft pink lips, bright green eyes. Somebody tell that pig-headed fucker Daddy adores him. 

At the command to freeze, John stuffs his hand under the pillows. No gun. The tandem cocking of two state-issued revolvers pierce the air. John rolls over and aims his long, black remote control.

The first bullet rips through his calf. The second goes through the drywall. The third punctures his gut. When the blood bubbles from his mouth, it’s carried along with the whispered name of his firstborn son and only love.


	46. Chapter 46

Being his dad’s boyfriend has never protected Dean from punishment when he deserves it.  
After this most recent stunt, he’s dead meat. Toast. His ass is grass. However you want to say it, he's in deep shit.

It was an accident. A reflex. When Dad jumped after Sam, Dean's body just reacted. He grabbed his dad’s leg, and he went down like a redwood tree. 

Dean doesn’t stand a chance against his father, not even with the pistol tucked down his shorts. When John Winchester comes to, he's going to be one pissed dude. He’ll give his older boy hell, in and out of the bedroom, but he’s not coming anywhere near Sam. Dean will die before he lets that happen.  
So, maybe this is the day Dean dies. It’s about time.

The sun is done for, the sky going all blood red. It’ll be dark soon. It’s a good time for a second cigarette. 

They stopped running a few blocks from their apartment, but Dean still pokes Sam’s back, hurrying him along. Carver Street is a sanctuary with the huge houses and the basketball hoops in the driveways. At 4823 he slumps on the steps. 

Sam runs up, like Dean told him, and rings the doorbell.   
Dean scouts up and down the road, ears keen for the rumble of the Impala, or his father’s shouting. It’s perfectly quiet. Not even a dog barking.

Jamie’s mother comes to the door. “Sam? Did you forget something?”

“No, ma’am. I… could I come in, please?”

Sam does it just like Dean told him: don’t answer questions. Just get in there and stay away from windows until Dean clears the coast.

The woman winces at Dean’s busted up face. In a soft voice, she asks, “Would you like to come in, as well?”

“I need you to keep him,” he says. “Just, for a little while, please.”

Until his dad isn’t a threat anymore. When is that going to be?  
It is possible that he’ll never see his brother again and Dean visibly trembles, his nose stings, but he shoves away tears with the back of his fist.

If this is what it takes to keep Sam safe, this is what it’ll be.

The lady asks, “Have you had dinner?”


	47. Chapter 47

“I think we should talk about your birthday,” Dr. Hill says, elbows on her desk, fingers clasped. 

Talking about Dean’s birthday means talking about the fact that Dean doesn’t have a birthday. Or at least no one seems to know when it is. Same as Sam. Kansas records don’t show a Dean or Sam Winchester born in Lawrence around the times Sam and Dean would have been born. 

There’s a marriage license of a John to a Mary Colter. And a John and Mary Henderson and a Jeff and MaryAnne Wilkenson, who had two sons about Sam and Dean’s age, but their names were Daniel and Simon. Dean hardly remembers his mother at all. Or the house where he grew up. Sometimes, he dreams the fire. 

So, when Dr. Hill tries to tell him he’s probably not Dean Winchester, but Dan Wilkenson, his brain shuts off. He can’t understand her words. He hears them and recognizes her voice, but it the same as water gushing out of a tap: static and fuzz.

“Mrs. Crenshaw says you’re all done with the medicine. How do you feel about that?”

This is not a better topic. Dean’s arms stay folded, hands tucked in his pits, body slouched in the padded chair as if comfort would be a concession. 

“You know what it was for?” Dr. Hill asks. 

Of course, he knows, but he’s not going to talk about it. Dean shakes his head.

“You had an STD, Dean,” she says. “A sexually transmitted disease. Do you understand what that means?”

Contrary to popular opinion, Dean is not an idiot. He can’t read for shit. And he zones out sometimes, but he knows about fucking STDs, and anal fissures, and all that stuff. 

“Do you want to talk about how that might have happened?”

Well, Dean might have gotten Gonorrhea in his throat from his dad, except Dean hasn’t seen his dad in four months. He tightens his wings even tenser around himself, clenches his jaw. Dean Winchester is a lot of bad things, but he’s no rat.

“Dean?”

The bell rings between classes and he shuffles along with the rest of the lemmings. School mostly sucks, but there are a few classes Dean wishes would never end: lunch, music, PE. 

The rest of his classmates scurry off to change out of their gym uniforms. Dean hangs back and helps Mr. Novak collect the dodgeballs. Nobody asked him to. Just because the gym smells good - warm and sweaty, and every bounce reverberates off the wall and the squeaky sneakers make him smile. Maybe he could be a gym teacher someday. It’s the first time he’s ever thought about that kind of thing: Growing up. Being something.

Dean darts around the huge room, tossing the balls to Mr. Novak with his black, spiky hair. He’s got a loud-ass whistle and all the fifth-grade girls crushing on him. Together, they get everything back on the rack in no time. 

“Thanks, buddy.” Mr. Novak rewards Dean with a high five. “Hey. Great hustle out there today.”

Dean smiles and nods, ready to run off to the next torture: twentieth-century American History. 

“Hey, hold on a second,” Mr. Novak says. “Don’t worry. I don’t have a class this next period and I can give you a pass.”

A dream is coming true. If Dean could get a pass to spend the entire day in the gym, that’s what he’d do, even if it meant cleaning up a thousand dodge balls.

He follows Mr. Novak into his office. 

“So, you play any sports, outside of school?”

Dean shakes his head. 

“You kidding me, right? You’re a natural powerhouse, dude.”

Dean smiles.

“Seriously, you could dominate at baseball, football, soccer. What do you like best?”

“All of it.”

“Hell, yeah.”

Mr. Novak’s desk is kind of a mess, but he rustles through the papers and produces a small stack of colorful brochures. He doesn’t hand them over yet, though. Instead, he drops a warm hand on Dean’s shoulder. 

“Listen,” he leans close like he’s going to share a great secret about the key to success in sports. “Is it true you know to suck dick?”

A fireball ignites in the center of Dean’s chest. The flames lick up his neck, onto his cheeks.

“It’s cool, man. Not many people can say that.”

Dean chews his cheek. Where did Mr. Novak hear that? 

“Hey, hey, don’t worry,” the teacher says, as if Dean’s thoughts are up on the chalkboard. “You’re the coolest damn kid in this school, man. And if anybody thinks about fucking with you, you let me know.”

Dean draws in a heavy breath and nods. 

“Yeah.” Mr. Novak smiles and squeezes Dean’s shoulder. 

No wonder all the girls whisper and giggle about him. He jogs over and softly shuts his door.  
   
“Listen, man. You want to do me a big favor?”  
   
Dean shrugs. It’s kind of obvious where this is going. The guy wasn’t even subtle about it. Apparently, all the teachers know what Dean is good at. Unfortunately, most of his teachers are women, so that’s not much help where he needs it. If his dad was around, he wouldn’t let anyone touch him. But his dad is locked up. At least, that’s what Dean heard.   
That means, Dean is watching Sam’s back, and nobody’s got his.

Mr. Novak ushers him into the corner between shelves of volleyballs and basketballs, where it’s vinyl and dirt-smelling. He slides down the front of his sweats and strokes his cock. It’s way smaller than Dean’s dad’s. It’ll be easier to do it than to say he doesn’t want to.

“My girlfriend is being such a bitch.” Mr. Novak explains. “A guy can only beat off so much, right?”

He stands there, holding the base of his dick, waiting for Dean to get to work. Then, both of his hands are on Dean’s skull. 

“Aw, fuck, dude. You learned well, man.” He groans. “No gag reflex? Shit…”

He talks through the whole thing, but it’s over pretty quick. Again, it’s easier to swallow Mr. Novak’s gunk than to ask with a full mouth where he should spit it. Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and paws the tears from his cheeks.

“That was awesome, Dean,” the gym teacher says as he fixes his clothes. “You know, you can’t tell anybody about this, right? I mean, we’d both get in a shitload of trouble.”

Dean nods. 

“Yeah. I know you know. You’re the best man. Favorite student. No doubt.”  
    
Dean half-smiles. Mr. Novak ruffles his hair, gives him a fist bump and the stack of flyers.

“Make sure you talk to your foster parents about that league. You’d kill out there.” 

“Dean?” Dr. Hill says for the thirtieth time. “By the little you’ve told us, and what we’ve heard from … other sources, we’ve pieced together that you got those germs from your father.”

Dean is not stupid. Other sources is Sam. He was always asleep. He doesn’t know anything. Ought to keep his big, dumb mouth shut. Dean ought to punch out his lights for telling stuff that was never his business. 

“I understand you don’t want to discuss the details, Dean. I know that you feel awful inside. You might feel awful for the rest of your life because of the terrible things your father did. But if you let me, I can teach you some ways to cope with those feelings.”

Sure, a lot of it was gross. But Dean never felt as bad as when Dr. Hill started telling him how awful he should feel. Now, he’s not sure what’s going on inside his own head. 

“Why don’t we talk about those bruises?”

Dean has seen the pictures in his files a hundred times, but the colors have long faded from his skin. They weren’t bruises. They were suck marks. Love bites, but this lady would never understand that. Dr. Hill means well, but she doesn’t understand what she’s talking about.

Dean’s dad never meant to hurt him. Dean was his special boy.  
Sometimes he got carried away, same as if Dean wrestles with Sam and he forgets how much bigger he is, and Sam winds up crying. It’s never because Dean wanted to hurt him. He’d just made a mistake.

Dean keeps his mouth shut. Slumps in his chair until the session is over. Then he drags into the waiting room, watching home repair shows until Sam and Mrs. Crenshaw come out of his session. 

Sam has his own separate talk doctor. He’s got his own bed, too, in his own bedroom. The Crenshaws have even bought him new clothes. No more hand-me-downs from Dean. Sam also has a very good chance of being adopted.

Dean has fuck-all but a bad attitude.

After these appointments, the Crenshaw’s always take Sam for ice cream. Sure, they buy Dean a cone, too, but only because he’s there. 

Then they go for a walk. Mr. Crenshaw lifts Sam onto his shoulders. Dean watches from the corner of his eye, but those big hairy hands wander no higher than Sam’s ankles.

“Are you going to drop me?” Sam asks.

“Never.”

Five minutes later, Sam asks again, “Are you going to drop me?”

“Never,” Mr. Crenshaw says, smiling. 

It’s their inside joke, now. Mrs. Crenshaw smiles at them. She offers Dean the end of the leash, but Dingo isn’t his puppy. He’s Sam’s, bought a week after they arrived, after the first request. 

Some kind of test shows that Sam is a certified genius. He’s got his mountain of books. He gobbles down all his vegetables and loves baths. No wonder they got him a dog.

Dean doesn’t want the fucking leash.

But he’s a pretty boy, even when he pouts. A friend of Mrs. Crenshaw suggested they take Dean to a modeling agency. When the guy set him up on the stool, and started snapping pictures, and telling him what to do, Dean’s heart went into overdrive. It was beating too fast. His lungs wouldn’t work, and he was sweating and crying. It was pretty much the worst feeling he’s ever had and he’s had a lot of shitty feelings.

Dr. Hill asked him a million times why he didn’t enjoy having his picture taken, but Dean isn’t being stubborn. He really doesn’t know. 

He does, however, know exactly why Mr. Crenshaw never looks directly at him. That man acts like Dean’s skin is poisonous - avoids any touching him at all. It’s because Dean is yucky, like that green face sticker with the tongue sticking out. 

Dean doesn’t care about Mr. Crenshaw running from the room whenever they’re alone. His body is hungry for his dad’s affection, not this stranger’s. No matter how much Dean touches himself in bed, it doesn’t help. He can rub his dick until it strips off the skin. He fingers his ass, sucks on his thumb, but it’s never enough.

Every night, at dinner, they discuss Dean’s grades and his “progress” like he’s a broken toy they’re unsure how to repair. Then, the talk turns to Sam, and it’s all smiles and expanding vocabulary. 

A lot of times, Dean doesn’t even eat. He sits there, staring at the wall, thinking of his dad. What’s it like in prison? Is he thinking of Dean, too? Is he mad?

One night, a few weeks ago, Dean laid in bed, clutching his growling stomach. He rolled onto his side, onto his belly to see if that would shut it up. It only got worse. Dean burrowed his head under the pillow and groaned at himself. Should have eaten, stupid.

When the hunger got painful, he slid into his slippers and tiptoed down the stairs. If they caught him, Dean would tell them to go fuck themselves. He’d been planning it, building and working up to it for months. This would be the perfect chance. 

He made it safely to the kitchen, got the mustard and the ham on the whole wheat bread. His mouth was wide open, about to close on the sandwich when he heard the steps behind him and froze solid. 

Without taking another breath, he turned. Just Sammy. 

Dean let out a loud exhale, but then it occurred to him: Sam would never get in trouble for making himself a sandwich. Hell, he could waltz into the Crenshaw’s bedroom in the middle of the night and whine that he’s hungry again. The woman would hop into her bathrobe and skip downstairs to fix him something. 

Sam blinked and rubbed his big, round eyes. All Dean’s resentment and anger disintegrated. Sammy is green-apple fresh. It’s no wonder the Crenshaws love him. In fact, it’s their one redeeming quality. 

“You hungry?”

Sam nodded and stepped closer. Dean was about to rip his sandwich in half when Sam opened his mouth like a baby bird. He didn’t want his own. The little piglet wanted what Dean had.

Dean let him bite and wiped the mustard from the corner of his lip. When Sam smiled, Dean’s body played an awful trick, flushing all warm while his dick flared in his Transformer pajama pants. Like a disease. Dean took his sandwich and fled to his bedroom.

He was barely finished chewing and balling up his paper towel when Sam knocked and opened his door.

“What do you want?” Dean asked, sounding meaner than he meant to. “Go to bed.”

Instead of listening, Sam shuffled to his bedside, pulled back the covers and climbed in. He snuggled so close, forcing Dean to breathe bubble gum baby bath from his hair. Sam wrapped his arms all the way around Dean’s back.

He’s little still, but not so small. When they’re standing, he comes up to Dean’s chin already, although he’s only six. Mr. Crenshaw likes to joke that Sam doesn’t have to grow so fast. He’s clever enough to get into college without a sports scholarship. (Unlike Dean. People don’t always have to say what they’re thinking for you to hear it.)

“Do you like it here?” Sam asks. 

Dean takes a moment. Doesn’t want to lie to his brother. 

“They love you,” he says.

“They love you, too.”

Dean doesn’t contradict. Sam is wrong, but he can argue Dean under the table and around the block. 

“I love you,” Sam says and presses his strawberry toothpaste-flavored lips to Dean’s mouth. 

Here’s that sinking in the pit of his gut Dr. Hill is always wanting Dean to feel. He pushes his brother away. 

“I know you miss Daddy.”

Dean knows Sam doesn’t. “Go back to your room, Sam.”

His body is so warm. In the last few months, whenever he’s hugged Sam, someone is always watching. A lot of times, Mrs. Crenshaw steps in, pats Dean’s shoulder like she’s cutting in on a dance. Makes him let go. 

Maybe she’s not wrong to do that. Sam is stretching up, kissing Dean’s chin like the sweet kid he is. Dean can’t make his body cool its jets. 

He tries to freeze still as a block of ice, but there’s lava ripping through his veins.  
Dean’s hips are grinding and he can’t stop them. Worse? Sam’s doing it, too. They’re like a pair of snakes slithering in a pit. 

Dean’s dick is hard and his whole body is lit up brighter than when his dad used to touch him. The thing is, Sam doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s too little, and Dean’s going to ruin him. 

Dean pulls back, tries to roll away. Sam wiggles up, grabs his face and mashes their lips together. 

“No, Sam. You’re too little.”

“I’m not.” 

Sam strokes Dean’s chest, palms his crotch. Dean’s body floods cold with terror. How does Sam know how to do this? Did their father get to him already?

“Sam, it’s bad…”

“Why is it bad?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “It just… It is, okay?”

“That’s not a reason. Mommy and daddy do it all —”

“Don’t call them that.”

Sam purses his lips. He wants to argue, but he knows better. Instead, he crawls up onto Dean’s stomach with his ass right on Dean’s problem. 

“Sam, I’m all messed up. I don’t want …”

Dean’s voices catches as if there’s a spider web in his throat.

“You’re not messed up,” Sam leans low and kisses him again. “You’re my brother.”

He rests his head on Dean’s heart. Glides up and down rubbing his tiny dick against Dean who grips the sheets and lets Sam take what he needs. 

It’s so good he’s dizzy.

“Sammy, stop,” Dean whispers once more before he grips Sam’s ass and helps him ride.

Sam whispers nonsense, pants in Dean’s ear.

“That’s it. Come on, Sam. God, you’re so sexy,” Dean says, gasping and wincing as if the words hurt.

Sam strains and grunts, he whines and winds up tight. Then he sighs and melts into the crook of Dean’s neck. His bird’s pulse fluttering against Dean’s ribs.

After a while, he sits up and gives Dean a lopsided, snaggle-toothed grin.

The timer quacks, Dean blinks, and he’s in Dr. Hill’s office. 

“One day, you’ll talk to me,” she says. “Maybe Thursday.”

Dean scoops up his backpack on the way to the door. He’s not telling this shit to anybody. Fucking ever. 


	48. Chapter 48

The mechanized barbed wire fence screeches shut behind him. Justice has taken an eternity.  
The state-appointed lawyer explained the details, but who even gives a shit? The cops botched it. Free to go. That’s all John needs to know. 

He lifts his face to the warm sun and fills his lungs with exhaust-infused free air under an unencumbered sky he hasn’t seen in half a year. Sure, he’s been out in the yard that time, but not in his own clothes with his own trajectory. Incarcerated, time collapses on itself: expands and contracts until an inmate can hardly feel the difference between a week and a month.

His release was so abrupt that John is still too stunned to do more than scratch his crew cut and walk down the pale pavement of the alley behind his correction facility.

Is he correct now? Has he been corrected?

John walks, not toward anything. Just away from the gray brick and gun towers. Like a man emerging from a pool, it takes a moment before he feels his weight, re-acclimates to gravity. Reclaims his gait.

He is as he ever was, but now also suspected grime of the earth. His crime? Loving his son.   
The first punishment was making him live. When a man wants to die, that’s a crueler penalty than solitary confinement, (which is some pretty fucked up shit). The state, or the feds, paid to patch up John’s bullet-ripped guts.  Medivaced his sorry, sputtering ass to General. Only John can appreciate the irony that the surgeons used the same procedure that saved Dean’s life four years ago. 

Then, the state stuck him in a concrete box along with murderers and conmen who wanted to tear out his throat.   
The next step in John’s sentence was to let a jury of his “peers” gawk, judge and decide his fate.   
But a man like John Winchester doesn’t have any peers - or certainly not many. No one can understand his plight.   
His love thrives beyond the unwritten honor code of thieves’ and crack dealers’. How are a bunch of teachers and construction workers going to understand him? The jury would have happily seen him flayed for being different. 

In prison, men are bored. Finding new prey shrinks the time. This John understands. They’d marked the wrong man.

He quietly shanked one gang leader and word quickly traveled that John Winchester, though the lowest form of life, ought not be fucked with. That act was self-defense, but less motivated by John’s will to live than his need to stand up for the dignity and beauty of what he shared with Dean.

These people think they know him. They don’t know shit. None of them has looked into that boy’s eyes and felt him shake the bed, unravelling in a seemingly endless orgasm. None of has held Dean while he shuddered through his bliss. If any of these upstanding citizens or hardened criminals loved someone body and soul, they might be on the other side of the bars.

They believe in a barrier between father and son. But what Love could be more holy, or more pure than that of an innocent child? John washed himself clean in Dean’s blood and tears. In return, he flooded Dean with his cum.  
Perhaps a saner man would sink into remorse and sorrow for what he’d done, but John would fester to dust in prison for one more taste of the boy, to lick his smile, to fill his hole.    
“Hey, beautiful. Come here. Show Daddy,” John mumbles as he shuffles along on aching soles. “Yeah, baby. That’s it.”   
He murmurs despite parched mouth and dry lips. Behind his hooded eyelids, Dean is smiling, dancing a clumsy strip-tease. They can toss John back in jail, drop the key in the Marianas Trench, but they’ll never strip away these memories.   
But what a cost.

Six months of shame and constant threat, Dean and Sam are good and gone. He’s out, but no one is saying where his boys are. 

Most likely, Dean is in some group home being taught how evil John is, and how wrong everything is they ever did together. And John can’t even get to him. Has no idea where to even start.

Cute, bright Sam must be adopted by now. Somebody else’s boy.

That's it, isn't it?

Dean gone. Sammy gone. What else did John Winchester ever have? 

Listen, people. If the man could change, he would. Honest. This is who he is. How he's made. And his weaknesses have made him fail himself and his kids. Failed to keep them safe, and close, and shielded from society’s lies. 

Hours after his long march began, John settles on a park bench, under a bruise violet sky. A girl roller blades past and has the audacity to smile at him. He could chase her down and choke the life out of her lithe body. The desire to hurt something simmers low in his gut.

Two women in power suits and nurse’s sneakers speedwalking, chattering about teenagers slamming doors. John could close his bare fists around their yammering throats.

He could bludgeon that picnicking family with a stone. First, the father, then the mother. He’d run down the little girl and bash her head on the pavement. The son is young, maybe three. Too little to stir John’s lust, but he’d fuck him anyway. Hell, he could fuck them all. The dog, too. Slit its neck and leave the bodies for the flies.

The worst they could do is pop him back in jail. Either way, he still doesn't have his boys. 

John won’t kill anybody today, but he could. That knowledge is a comfort. The only thing offering any peace in this fucked up, sonless world. John clasps his hands in his lap, watches the family picnic unfold and wonders if Sam is eating well. Dean always did.


	49. Chapter 49

 Dean swivels back and forth in Mrs. Crenshaw’s desk chair. The inside of his cheek is all shredded like ground meat. His tongue troubles the wound so that every few minutes he’s got a mouthful of blood to swallow. 

The only question is how much pain, how long. He doesn’t mind pain. Actually, the right kind of pain makes him feel electric and invincible - like, the more something hurts, the more alive he is, which is weird, but Sam likes olives, so… 

But there’s a limit to everything. Sharp bursts of pain or low dull aches are best. Dean doesn’t want to suffer for a long time. 

Mrs. Crenshaw’s service revolver rests heavier on his lap than any of Dad’s weapons ever felt. Mrs. Crenshaw. Melissa. Sam’s future mom’s. If he aims right, Dean can get some brain splatter on one of her framed certificates. 

He’s supposed to get her signature on his latest failed spelling test. No point now.

And no need to eat, even though his tummy rumbles at him. Hungry, again. Always hungry. Never wants to eat these peoples’ food. 

Since third period, his guts have been churning and spilling bitter juice up his throat. He’s been outrunning Mr. Novak for days by rushing out of the gym with the rest of the class. Today, though, the gym teacher blew his whistle extra loud and pointed at Dean, his face red and angry. 

“Winchester, I saw that.”

Dean stood there, blinking at everyone else, his heart pounding from the game and the sudden accusation. 

“That’s a detention, buddy. No two ways about it.”

Dean’s stomach vaulted onto the back of his tongue and then dove into the pit of his stomach.

“I can’t,” he heard his mouth say. “I have a, um, dentist appointment.”

“Then, you can do it tomorrow. No excuses.” 

That was today. Tomorrow, no excuses.

Mr. Novak never sneers like that at anyone else. 

“You can help wash the gym floor,” he said, but Dean’s not going to be mopping, or sucking, anything. 

“And the rest of you can thank Dean Winchester for wrecking the game.”

The girl nearest to Dean raised her eyebrows and shook her head like Dean was the Anti-christ. Another toot of the whistle and the rest of the class went back to dodgeball while Dean struggled to fill his lungs.

For some dumb reason, at that moment, all he could think about was calling his little brother Sam Crenshaw. Of course, they want to adopt him. No surprises there. They also want Dean to disappear. 

They never said it that way, but they do. 

Dean has already clarified that no one’s going to adopt him. In response, Sam told Melissa he doesn’t want it if Dean doesn’t. 

“You’re standing in the way of your brother’s future.”

She’s right. Dean knows she’s right. Every time he thinks about it, his chest tightens like there’s an elephant sitting on him. Shitting on him.

The only moment Dean feels anything like peace is when he’s having a smoke after school. And yes, the Crenshaws will smell the smoke on him again. And he’ll say it was one of his friends again. If they don’t want to be Crenshaws, eventually, Sam and him will get kicked out of this house anyway. 

As if everything wasn’t shit enough, Dean was minding his business, smoking after school, fantasizing about running away, when that girl Kelli with the big tits walked up and put her hands on her hips.

“You’re going to get in so much trouble.”

“If you want to try, all you have to do is ask,” Dean said and took another long drag.

It was perfectly clear what she wanted. They all want it. Everybody looks at Dean like he’s candy or crap. Or both. 

In Kelli’s case, she wanted to kiss him and then suck him. And Dean hadn’t had anybody’s hand or mouth on him in ages, so, he handed over his cigarette. He laughed when she coughed. 

“Baby.”

Kelli shook her yellow hair over her shoulder and called him stupid.

Yeah. Dean already knows he’s stupid, and he wasn’t in the mood to play. He pushed the girl against the wall, mashed their lips together and pulled her hand to his crotch. Kelli screeched in his mouth and shoved him. Her eyes were all bright and wet. 

“What’s wrong with you?”

Dean’s heart punched his ribs as she ran off across the field, stumbling in that ditch maintenance still hasn’t fixed.

If Kelli hasn’t already told, she’s going to. Dean would walk into school tomorrow and they’d all look at him like he’s a criminal. All the ones that want him now will hate him tomorrow. All the one who hated him will crucify him, like Jesus.

Maybe Pastor Harriman is right and getting dunked in that water meant that Dean is going to see Jesus in a couple of minutes. 

Jesus sounds all right. Dean can go to Heaven and sit around listening to that guy tell stories all day. That’ll be way better than here where he’s the only retarded freak in his class who can’t read as good as a second-grader.

The steel clicks between his teeth. Heavy on his tongue, but different from Dad’s cock. He fixes both thumbs over the trigger. Backwards will be harder. Eyes watering, like Kelli’s.

Dean can see it now, how dirty his dad made him. Thinks about it all the time.  
He didn’t even fight. He didn’t try to make it stop. A lot of the time, he even liked it.

Maybe, Dean won’t get to hear Jesus’ stories after all.  
Won’t be seeing his mom. But at least he won’t be hurting anybody. He’ll just be burning forever.

Tears stream down both cheeks. It’s fine. He can do this. A gun is like a dick, only colder and harder. The bullet is the cum.

“Dean?”

No, no. Just do it now.

Sammy shouldn’t see this. He shouldn’t even be awake. Is something wrong?

By the time Dean bats open his eyes, Sam’s hand is on the gun, easing it away. Dean breath is shallow. Nostrils flaring, body shaking as his little brother puts the gun back in the case. Sam takes Dean’s hand and leads him from the office back to his bedroom.

Sammy holds back the covers for his big brother. That’s the kind of helpless loser Dean is. He lays on his back with his hands over his sobbing face. Goosebumps cover his body, and he can’t stop shivering, even with Sam’s hot little body pressed up against him. 

Sam pulls at one of his arms but isn’t strong enough to make Dean show himself. He whispers into the skin, warm and soft, “Don’t do that, please. Never do that. No matter what.”

A tear slips from Dean’s eye into his ear, cold and itchy.

“Promise me, Dean. Promise. Never. No matter what. Please.”

“Quit being such a bitch.” 

Why did he say that? Why is he so awful?  
When Sam doesn’t reply, Dean glances over and finds him sucking his bottom lip. If Dean dies, Sam’s got to be able to fend for himself.

“Don’t let people talk to you like that,” he says, suddenly consumed with toughening his brother up. “If they do, you call them something, too. Call me something.”

“Like a jerk?”

“Something worse. Call me an asshole.”

Sam winces and shakes his head.

“You’re fucking hopeless, Sam. People are just going to treat you like shit.”  
   
Sam climbs onto Dean’s belly.

“Not if you protect me.” 

He’s been crying, too. Dean’s so self-absorbed he didn’t even think what this would do to Sammy. Well, he did think, but he thought Sam would be better off. Sam smears salty tears as he peppers kisses to Dean’s cheeks and mouth, and wiggles, and presses his little twig against Dean’s stomach. 

“Sam, quit.”

“I don’t want you to leave me.”

“I’m not. I won’t.”

Sam’s body twists in desperation, but Dean knows what he needs. Can make him forget. Make him feel good. If there’s one thing he can do…  
Maybe, this is who Dean is. This is his purpose. If he can do that for Sam, maybe he can deserve to live.

He rolls his brother onto his back and slides off his pajama pants. Sam’s breathes is fast, but he doesn’t seem afraid. 

“This is what you want?”

He nods and his knees drop wider. Dean bows low, nuzzles the soft, heaving belly. Sam giggles under the noisy raspberry. Then Dean peels down the elastic and tastes his baby brother’s sweaty pecker. Sam stills, little fingers in Dean’s hair as his hips rise, chasing that magical mouth. 

In a matter of minutes, his body trembles and then loosens. There’s no cum, but Sam giggles and whispers, “Wow.”

Dean climbs up, kisses him softly, savoring his strawberry toothpaste tongue. He pulls the covers over their heads, strokes his brother’s hair from his face, then grips it tight, yanking back to expose his neck. Dean latches on, sucks and licks until Sam is gasping again, grasping at his back and arm. Skinny legs snug around Dean’s ass. 

“Dean?”

“Yeah, baby.”

Dean’s body burns from the inside out. He slides his pajamas below his ass and fits himself between Sam’s legs. He asks again, “This is what you want?” 

Sam nods and nips Dean’s chin. 

“God, I love you.”

Sam squeezes him closer. “Will it hurt?”

“I’m never going to hurt you, Sammy. Not ever.”

He humps his brother, nice and slow. That’s how it was best with his dad. He digs around and can’t really find Sam’s hole, but this is sweet sweet sweet. Dean’s dick between his cheeks, Sam’s twig between their bellies. 

“Oh my God. Sam. Fuck. Fuck, Sammy.”

He barely moves his hips, soaks in the warmth, the love, the safety, the beauty.

“Mark!!”

His foster mother yanks him from the bed, shrieking, “My God! What is wrong with you?”

Dean never heard Sam’s door squeak open. He’s not sure she didn’t just materialize. Melissa lifts Sam and carries him away cooing that he’ll be all right.

Dean pulls up his pants. Tries to apologize. Tries to follow, but Mr. Crenshaw blocks the way. He’s still sleep-warm with his hair sticking up. His hands are wide and he dodges back and forth, keeping Dean from wherever that woman is taking his brother.

“Dean, calm down. Just calm down.”

Dean dives against him once and the man pushes him back against the wall. A firm hand on Dean’s collarbone.

“You can’t... You can’t do that to your brother.” 

Mark rubs a hand over his head.

From another room, the woman screams, “Get that animal out of my house. Get him away from my baby.”

Her baby? Sam has always been Dean’s baby. And these people want to take him away. Should have seen it.

Dean yells and charges Crenshaw so hard he knocks the man back, his soft cock rubbing against Dean’s stomach through his pajama pants. That doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want to know that. Just does. He felt it. It’s not what’s important.

“Sam! Sammy!”

They’re going to throw Dean away: toss him someplace for crazy people who can’t stop drawing dicks and wondering about pussies and touching himself all fucking day long. For people who can’t help hurting their little brothers.

Dean stops fighting. He lets Crenshaw pin him. As soon as the man sees he’s not fighting, he removes his body completely. Wouldn’t want to touch something so nasty.

“Mark, get him out—”

“Melissa, please, just… Where am I supposed to take him?” Crenshaw shouts back. “It’s 3 in the morning. Please, calm down.”

Dean slinks down into the corner and hugs his knees. 

“You understand that what you did... It’s not okay?”

Dean buries his face in his hands. Sam should have let him die.

“Dean, I... we want to help you. We truly do. But I’m not sure we’re qualified. I... ”

“Please, don’t…” Dean croaks, his voice shattering before he can finish begging.

Crenshaw stoops to hear but not close enough to touch. “What was that?”

“Don’t send me away.”

“Son, I…” the man stands. “I’m going to call the pastor, okay? He’ll know what to do.”


	50. Chapter 50

With one final swing of his machete, John brings down the last of a dozen vamps. He wipes the blade on his jacket sleeve and spits acidic blood onto the floor. His clothing, hands and face are covered in gore, as are the walls.

Job done, he lets out a long exhale and strolls down the corpse-lined corridor. Vamp. Human. You can’t always tell. Deep nasal inhale. Adrenaline rushes through his system like a narcotic.  

“Bravo.”

The voice comes from behind. As applause rings through the air, John’s blood runs frigid. He turns to face a man with a medium build, fair hair and eyes that flash yellow when he grins.

“How’re the kids?”

John’s insides twist like a wet rag. His bladder threatens to empty. He raises his weapon and charges, screaming like a banshee. The demon flicks its wrist and John’s soars through the air, slams against a wall, and slumps to the linoleum.

Despite vertigo, he heaves himself up and limps toward his mortal enemy. He’s ready to die. He’s always known he’d go down fighting this bastard.

The demon knocks him aside again and peers down, head shaking with amused pity.

“Come on, Johnny. Is that all you wanted? To kill me? I thought we’d have a meaningful dialogue. I mean, here I am. You’ve been chasing me all your life, right?”

“No,” John says, forcing his bruised body to stand. “Since that night.”

“And which night is that? There’ve been so many.”

“You know damn well!”

“What? The barbecue?” The demon smiles like he’s recalling an evening on the French Riviera. “Remind me again why you ever married that whore.”

Mary Campbell was a lot of things, but she was no whore. In her short life, she'd never bedded another man.   
When John met her, she was a flat-chested, tree-climbing 16-year-old tomboy. Running away from her daddy’s rules and right into John’s bed. Heaven had sent a miracle: a woman he almost found attractive. 

Within a month, he’d filled her with Dean and said I do. Pregnancy, however, was Mary’s great unmaking. Her breasts ballooned. Hips spread. Cutoff jeans and ratty t-shirts became sundresses and sandals, makeup and makeovers. It was a swift ride downhill from there. 

John didn’t touch her much. Gave her space. Loved that boy, though.

Three years later, the woman had gotten John drunk and taken advantage, assuring him that another baby would fix all their problems. Another baby would not fix the fact that Mary had her own drinking habit. Another baby wasn’t going to stop her from smacking Dean when he asked too many questions. 

For too long, John cringed and tried to ignore it.

The day he finally confronted her, the world shifted. He’d caught her arm mid-swing and said, “That’s enough.”

Mary snatched away and bared her pearly teeth. “Yeah, is it? You trying to tell me what to do, John, you perv?”

“You can’t just hit him like that.”

“Why? ‘Cause you want him for yourself?”

John blinked.

“You think I don’t see you? Staring at the little boys at the park.” She sneered like a rat. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but… Maybe what I ought to do is take these kids out of here before you start getting ideas. How’s that sound?”

John’s spit stuck like glue in his throat. He wrapped his hands around hers. 

It’s unclear what happened after that. All he remembers is ash on his tongue. Flames licking his face. John had sent Dean outside. It was Dean’s idea to grab his brother first. John stared into those yellow eyes until he nearly asphyxiated. Then he staggered onto the lawn, hacking out smoke. 

“That was one hell of a night, Johnny,” the demon says, beaming.

“Why did you make me do that?”

“All this searching and you still don’t understand what I am?”

“I know what you are. I remember …”

Seeing this demon as a kid. Chasing little Georgie Sampson around his house. Georgie cackling. Always thinking it was a game. His fifteen-year-old babysitter never sure how it would end.

“You could have fucked that boy and beat him with his daddy’s hammer. Wouldn't that have been something?”

On the day it came closest to happening, Georgie’s mother had come home early, paid John the agreed-upon buck-fifty, and thought nothing more of it. On the walk home, John had thrown up in a neighbor's grass, and sunken to his knees, sobbing. Guts gnarled tighter than the denim squeezing his boner.

“You were going to make me kill him.”

“Oh, Johnny... not make you. Never make you,” the demon says. “Watch? Sure. Laugh. Absolutely. But, I’m not an engine, son. I’m a mirror.”

John’s exhale rattles as he tries to maintain his composure. 

“A reflection of your soul.”  
   
John claws at the drying blood in his beard, drowning in words that won’t compute.

“It’s all subject to change. You can go and find religion, John. Get redeemed. Change your ways.” The demon flashes air quotes and a killer smile. “That would end me, so to speak. But that’s on you, buddy. You could spend the rest of your life making up for past evils. Lot of guys do that. Run themselves to the bone, saving lives. Win themselves an angel. For what? You think it makes them happy? Fat chance. These guys don’t want to be happy. They're in love with the misery. There's never enough ‘good’ to cover over the darkness, the emptiness they truly are.

But you’re not like that are you Johnny? You know what you want. You know how to be happy. You're not going to be volunteering at the soup kitchen, pulling kittens out of storm drains when you can go get back your boys.”


	51. Chapter 51

_Dean flexes his knuckles, concentrates on the pain._

_“Are you listening?”_

_His eyes flick to the woman’s face. He sneers at her degree on the wall._  
_Hates these people. Hates everybody, most of all himself._

_“It won’t be long before you’re old enough to be detained, Dean. Is that what you want?”_

_Mrs. Alvarez with her huge dead dandelion mane, breathing the same dumbass questions down his neck when she already knows what he wants._

_“I am doing everything I can to keep you on this side of the bars, because once you become part of that system, chances are you spend the rest of your life in and out of correctional facilities. Is that what you want?”_

_“I want you to leave me the fuck alone.”_

_F-bombs always have the desired effect on her. She finally sees that she’s not helping, that she can’t help, that Sam is gone so Dean is gone. They could slap him into juvie now, toss the key. He does not fucking care._

_Dean also doesn’t care if that lump of shit Gordon ever comes out of the hospital. The gash across his nose is stinging now, but he grins at the mental image of Gordon curled on his side, clutching his face, howling. Pussy. Dean had grabbed the nearest thing (which happened to be a steel chair and hurled it at him). He’d probably still be attacking if Mr. Harlow hadn’t dragged him from the room._

_“I’m at a loss with you. I have nothing else to say,” is the last thing Mrs. Alvarez says before she sends him to the time-out room to think about his sins._

_One bed, white walls, no windows. He’ll be in here overnight. Not the first time. Or the last. One of the bigger kids told him it’s a preview of solitary confinement._

_Dean gives no fucks._

_He lies on his back, stares at the pocked ceiling, grinds his teeth and flexes his aching knuckles._  
_The lights go off on their own with no warning. That’s nothing new or strange. They do that all throughout the group-home at 9:30._

_He listens to his breath, trying not to think about what he did to Sam. Why they sent him away? Why he deserves whatever bad comes to him. He focuses on the pain instead. His hand hurts, his face hurts, his belly is empty. Good._

_Dean must have fallen asleep because the noise wakes him up. Clanking and banging. Shouts and gunfire. His heartbeat. His rapid breath. He sits up in his bed, grips the sheets. There’s no use trying the door. It’s locked from the outside. At least, maybe that means he’s safe from whatever the hell is going on out there. Sounds like Terminator._

_Shoeless, in his white t-shirt and blue striped pajama pants, hardly daring to breathe as the mayhem falls to silence._

_The doorknob rattles and Dean jumps. It turns, and he thinks of scrambling onto the other side of the bed. Instead, he sits there, trembling, hoping to God Whoever It Is kills him quick._

_The door opens, Mrs. Alvarez steps into the room, shaking, but trying to look calm. She opens her mouth to tell him something. Then, her head explodes. Bits of bone and brain splatter his clothes and his face._

-

That’s how Dean dreamed it, six thousand times.

In reality, it happens on a Saturday. He’s playing basketball when this little kid, Trevor brings him a note on lined paper. His team is getting trounced anyway so it’s a good excuse to make a T with his hands, call “time out” and read it.

_Let’s go. Right now. Just walk away._

His heart slams against his ribs as he scans the playground. At first, he doesn’t see anyone. Could be a weird prank. Then, all at once, there he is. Tall and lean, and tossing a cigarette into the dry grass.

Warm as it is, freezing sweat instantly coats Dean’s skin. His shoulders rise and fall rapidly as his lungs switch into overdrive.

He glances behind him. Around at the other dudes waiting for him to come back with the ball. The group home is bullshit. Foster families are deeper bullshit. School is a truckload of manure. He hasn’t seen Sam since the Crenshaws ditched him. His only chance of seeing Sam again is strolling away toward a big, black car like they used to have.

Dean forces a deep inhale and lets the ball bounce away behind him.

He climbs into the car and doesn’t say a word. Listens, instead to his pulse in his teeth. His fingers clutch the door handle, while some deep down part of him screams to run. Jump out of the car, run back and tell somebody.

His father starts the car and that’s that.

Well, it’s almost that.

Less than a mile down the road, they approach a stop light. Dean’s doing this. He’s decided. He’s going with his dad. The old man is weird. He’s already squeezing Dean’s leg, but it’s love, right? Nobody has touched him like this in a long time and the flames snaking through his veins are so sweet.

Almost nobody. As if God is reminding Dean that he has been touched,they pull up right next to Mr. Novak. He’s driving the car on the right.

Dean’s heart trips over itself again. He could totally say something. Anything. Who knows what his father would do?

Dean knows.

The light is still red. He could scream, point, or just whisper and watch his dad tear that man to shreds like a rabid dog.

Novak glances over. Away and then back. His eyes pop wide when he sees Dean. There’s two car doors and about four feet of air between them. Looks like a lady in his passenger seat.

Dad squeezes again and leans up for a look.

“What is it, son?”

Dean shakes his head. The light greens. Novak rolls away.

“Nothing, dad.”

Nothing but Dean Winchester with his Poppa again.

 


	52. Chapter 52

After eight months in captivity, John has finally freed his boy. One of them, at least.   
Sam’s situation is more complicated, and John hasn’t decided how to handle it. He has needs, but he’s not greedy. Dean was made for him. Maybe Sam was intended for other things. 

The lady cop is pregnant. Her husband is teaching Sam to ride a bike. John never got around to that with Dean. It’s fucking adorable to watch. All observations show these Crenshaws are good parents, except for the way they discarded Dean. But can you blame someone for trashing a broken toy?

Dean’s wrecked. Greasy as tar. That’s done. But what if one boy remains untarnished? Pure as mountaintop spring water. Sam could become a doctor or a lawyer. And Dean will be whatever John makes him.

With the boy back beside him, John’s heart pumps twice as hard, circulating a high octane hormone cocktail. Johnny’s high as smoke and hard as an anvil. 

He opens the window and hollers into the cold, black air. It whips his face, and he howls. Dean could suck him right now. Or John could pull over and fuck him in the backseat, if he were the same pitiful slave to his want.

No. This is that new lease folks are always talking about. He pulls his boy to him, licks into his mouth. Salty still from chalupas. Dean tenses slightly, but he doesn’t fight. Then John directs him to open his map to Montana. The boy does as he’s told and navigates like a sailor toward the spot John circled in red. 

He’ll have Dean now. Have him like he never has. For years, John satisfied himself with Dean’s tail. The boy is too big to truly enjoy anymore. Yet, John’s desire for him has expanded. Now, he wants his son’s heart, mind, and soul. 

“Reach in the back and get a beer.”

Dean obeys without hesitation. John whacks his little hiney, just because it’s in the air. 

“One for you, too.”

At that, Dean squints. 

“It’s all right. Your daddy said so.”

John cracks both tops with his teeth and clinks his bottle against Dean’s. It’s lonely at the top of the food chain, but it doesn’t have to be. 

“Drink it.”

Dean sniffs and sips. 

“If you don’t want to wear it, fucking drink it.”

The kid scrunches his face and slurps as little as possible. 

“You know I met my demon. I mean, stood face to face. Could have shaken his hand.” John grins and has a swig. “One day, you’ll have one of your own.”

“A what?”

“A demon.” John nods thoughtfully. “But there’s nothing evil in wanting what you want, son. Nothing wrong in having it. You were always mine. Heaven gave me dominion over you.”

Dean doesn’t reply. He nips at his beer and doesn’t make another peep. 

After all these years, John finally understands what Duckett meant by wanting to share his legacy. He and his heir ride through the night and into the following day with needing to speak a word. John rests his eyes for an hour before dawn. He gases up and drives through the next day. Eighteen hours later, under an inky starless Wyoming sky, his death-black machine eases down a bumpy gravel road into an almost virginal forest. The engine stills. The lights dim. John lays back on the headrest and takes a deep breath of Dean’s sweaty fear. 

This will be good. 

“Get out,” he says. “Strip.”

It’s early fall in the Rockies. Any rational person would have the same second of doubt. But rational Dean is no good to John. He needs the boy obedient. 

The man marches around the car, yanks his son from the seat and rips the shirt from his back. He shoves Dean, belly first, onto the impala’s hood. A high-pitched scream drowns out the hoots and clicks of the night creatures. 

“It’s hot, Dad. Please.”

The car’s hood. John hadn’t thought of that. Still, he smacks the back of Dean’s head. 

“You don’t speak.”

He jostles Dean’s sweats to his ankles and pushes him onto the steaming metal again. Dean pulls away and runs. Well, he hobbles, and then hops toward the back of the car, bending to fix his clothes.

As if he could escape. And where he does he plan to go? It’s better than comedy. The laugh bursts from John’s lips. He shoves his boot up Dean’s moonlight pale ass and the boy falls on his face in the dirt. 

John rolls him over with one steel-plated toe and sits dead-center on the boy’s chest. Dean wheezes and struggles until his father covers his mouth and nose. John’s palm soaks up futile shrieks while Dean kicks and thrashes.

“Sh. Sh sh sh. I want you quiet now,” John says. “You can squeal later.”

Dean nods that he understands, thereby earning the right to suck in a loud, desperate breath. John slides onto his knees, easing the weight on the boy’s lungs.

“All this time you’ve been gone, I’ve learned a lot about you.” John strokes Dean’s spring-soft face. “You’re not a slut at all, Dean. You’re a thing. An object I made to use as I see fit. You belong to me. Do you understand that?”

Dean gasps in a sob and nods.

“You’re mine. That means, if you misbehave, I choose your punishment. It means that if you die, I decide how and when. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

John slaps the insolent bastard.

“Yes, sir.”

He licks the tear from the corner of Dean’s eye, stands and bends his son over the trunk. He could carry him back to the hood and cook the meat off Dean’s bones, but he wants the boy’s full attention on what’s happening to his asshole. 

Dean’s still so short that John has to lift him off his feet for the right height and position. The car holds the brunt of his weight. A glob of spit slides down Dean’s crack. It’s enough to pry him open, not enough to make it easy. John’s left hand on the small of Dean’s back and two firm fingers to loosen him up.   
Dean yelps. His spine rigid, butt tightening even though he knows that makes it worse.

Worse for him, not for his dad. Dean can writhe and the whimper all night long. As a matter of fact, let’s see how he does on three fingers. 

Takes them beautifully. With his back arched, a fine sheen of sweat washing over him as he gasps and whines. John stretches him a bit more. Dean reaches back and grabs his wrist. 

“Please, stop.”

If John hears the words, they mean little to him. The first long, merciless drive inside forces a long, soprano wail from Dean’s throat, followed by a chant: 

“Dad, please. Dad, please. Dad, please. Ow ow ow. You’re hurting me.”

He’s a big boy now, but a tight hole is a tight hole. Feels damn good to be home.

“Please! Stop!”

John pins Dean’s wrists at his lower back and hammers his firm little ass, spanking a few times for kicks.

“Daddy!”

That word hitched on a breaking voice puts John on the brink. 

Dean squeaks along to his father’s punishing rhythm. John bends low to whisper, “You can take it.”

He wraps a hand around Dean’s throat but doesn’t squeeze yet.  
Dean clenches his hole as if he’s trying to expel an intruder. Then he whimpers and collapses onto the car. Stops fighting.

“That’s it. You don’t have to like it. Just fucking take it.”

John’s grunts blend with Dean’s weeping. A reunion symphony. The father fills his son, the rich scent of cum mingling with blood and shit as John pumps slowly, relishing his return. Absolute power, reclaimed.

When he pulls out, he staggers back and admires the dark vision of his handiwork. He plugs a few fingers in Dean’s hole to verify that he’s good and gaping. It’s black as a tomb tonight and John’s body glows like a brand new penny. He pushes his boy to the ground, opens the trunk and tosses the little cumdump inside, with its pants still bunched around its ankles. 

 

***

 

The trunk slams shut on top of Dean. There’s a bunch of crap in here, but it’s not much darker than it was outside. And at least the cold wind can’t batter him. His asshole hurts, but that’s not new. It’s just been a long time, but he’d known it was coming.  
Not the trunk. This part is a surprise, but Dean deserves this. He ran away. It’s his fault Sam is gone.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of his breath as he inhales gun oil and mildew. Then, the engine rumbles to life. He’s laying on his side, but after a gentle check of his raw, tender hole, Dean pulls up his pants and manuevers onto his back. He scrapes some skin off his shoulder in the process, but it’s way more comfortable because there’s no pressure on the burned-sore skin on his chest. Those few seconds on the hood probably took off a layer. 

Even with his father’s weapons poking his back and thigh, being in the trunk is better than riding beside him, wondering what he’ll do, when, and how bad it’ll hurt. This way, Dean can hum along to the songs on the radio, and make a game of identifying what he’s laying on. A rifle, two machetes, probably the case full of knives. He twists and angles, fingers wiggling and groping until he finds a pistol.

With the barrel tucked under his chin, it’d be so easy to end it. His dad will open the trunk and find brains and gunk all over his stuff. But for the first time, in a long time, Dean doesn’t want to die. He’s finally back where someone loves him best.

His butt hurts. His tongue is coated with sweat and dirt from his father’s hand. Still, weird love is better than no love. Soon, they’ll go get Sam and everything will be all right. Dean folds his arms around the gun and sleeps. 

 

***

John parks at the cabin. When he climbs out, his knees crack. Long ass drive. Battered-ass joints. He stretches his arms to the sky, bending his back like a bow. It’s not Duckett’s place, but the same rustic outdoorsman could have built it. 

The place is an owed favor. John doesn’t accept those lightly but needed to get way off-grid. He hops out, searches the perimeter. Everything as expected. Now, he comes to the trunk of his car.

Between the fuck and the drive, his animosity and anxiety are quietly resting. After six hours in the trunk, Dean must have learned something. It’s time to move forward with his training. 

Only, when John opens the trunk, he doesn’t discover a contrite, tear-stricken little boy. He finds an impudent asshole with the nerve to hold one of John’s revolvers. Dean must have planned to blow John’s face off, but the bastard fell asleep.

His lashes flutter open. He yelps as John yanks away the gun and drags him from the car. Dean tries to stand, but heavy hands on his shoulders keep him kneeling. John presses the cold steel between his huge green eyes.   
This would be a good ending. John wins. Pull the trigger, bury the body and be free. No more ungrateful mouths to feed. No more worry that he’ll escape again. 

When he’s good and through with Dean, he’ll do it. 

Right now, John grabs two pairs of cuffs from the duffel. He tucks them into his pocket so he can drag Dean inside by his hair. 

Gripping his father’s wrists to keep the fist from yanking out a chunk of scalp, Dean whines, “Dad, I have to pee.”

A backhand snaps across his fresh mouth. “What did I say?”  
   
“Dad, please.”

John hoists the disobedient sonofabitch over his shoulder, carries him down the hall and hurls him onto the bed. He cuffs Dean’s wrists to the headboard. Then, John pulls out his cock and pisses all over the boy’s pussy-pink burned belly, his crotch and his beautiful little crying face. 

 

***

 

Dean hasn’t cried this hard since he was a slime-nosed baby. His whole body and the bed shake. His dad just peed on him.

Real, actual pee. 

He’s had his dad’s jizz all over him before. Dean has even eaten the stuff. Not because he wanted to. Because eating jizz is better than getting slapped around or being suffocated. 

Eating jizz is disgusting. Somehow, this so much grosser.

At least it was warm at first. Now it’s cold and stinky and everywhere on him. 

The sobs fill Dean throbbing head with a fresh will for death. Eventually, with a whimper, he stops trying to control his bladder. There’s no point not peeing when he’s already covered in his father’s mess.

Was that his dad’s point? The message in the mess? Dean might as well piss himself. Who knows how long he’s going to be here?

So, now he’s peeing on himself like a preschooler. And his dad is gone. The room door clicked shut. The front door to the cabin slammed. And Dean is cuffed to a bed. 

This can’t actually be happening. It’s one of those crappy dreams he has sometimes. Any minute, he’s going to wake up in the group home with his pillow all sweaty. It’s sweat. Not pee. Has to be. This can’t be happening. Real people don’t pee on each other. They don’t lock people on beds. Not even his dad would be that weird.

But after a few hours of sleep and a few waking hours that creep by like a hundred thousand years, Dean’s aching shoulders ask what if his dad never comes back? What if he leaves Dean here to starve to death? And his body rots in this bed, and no one ever knows he was here? Until one day in a hundred years, these hikers just find a pile of bones in a bed.

Dean deserves it. His fault about Sam. He was waiting for the right moment to ask his dad when they’ll go get him, but first, he has to take his punishment. Whatever it is, he deserves it. Even the pee.

The air is thick and gross now. Pee-smell never made him want to throw up before, but Dean’s tongue coats with that bitter stuff that always comes before he barfs. 

He closes his eyes and begs Nobody. His stomach maybe, “Please please please please.”

If he throws up, he’s going to be laying in it. He can turn his head to the side, but that’s it. Dean begs, and Whoever listens. He doesn’t hurl. He lays there, breathing too hard. Listening to his breath and his heartbeat in his ears. Listening to the birds who couldn’t help him if they wanted to. 

Bit by bit, his breathing steadies and Dean studies his situation. His range of motion is pretty damn limited by these fucking cuffs. His dad used them once before, for sexy stuff. Cuffed Dean’s hands behind his back while he sucked. Then, he’d let Dean go, immediately after. 

Dean’s right hand is in so tight he can barely twist it. The left, though, he can turn and pull down to the base of his thumb. He yanks and jangles and screams and struggles. Of course, that’s wasted hope and tears.

There’s a painting on the wall across from the bed. A hunter with a rifle over his shoulder. He’s got ducks, maybe geese, dangling from his other hand and a dog at his side. Trees all around and blue sky. Looks like a good day for that guy and his mutt. Not so great for those ducks. 

If that was Dean and his old man, they’d boil em, and pluck em, skin em, and gut em. Then, they’d put them on a spit or roast them in a pan. Dean’s belly growls as if he was smelling a rotisserie chicken. His mouth fills with spit and he swallows. A tear slides down into his ear.

Nobody had been anywhere near his butt in a long time. He didn’t miss it, and his dad had not gone easy about it. It’s all the way dark outside by the time the pressure in his bottom becomes strong enough to hurt. God. He would give anything not to poop. Ever again. Not even in a toilet. But pooping on himself in the bed… God.

“Dad. Dad! Please. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! Please!” 

He yells apologies until his voice is hoarse. Then he whispers them. 

Dean squeezes his cheeks together, but that’s worse. His bottom is raw and all messed up. He’s not going to hold it in much longer. Again, Dean twists in that loose cuff. He turns and pulls and begs, “God, please.”

What is God, even? Almost definitely a lie to make little kids behave. Like Santa Claus. But in a moment like this, it doesn’t hurt to gamble on his existence. With a scream that rips out of his throat, Dean tugs until a layer of skin slides off his wrist like a snake, revealing the red meat underneath. It hurts like all fuck, but he’s free. At least one hand.

It’s enough to roll off the bed, pull down his pants and squat in the corner. It hurts coming out but worst than if he'd tried to keep holding it. There’s no way to wipe, though, and Dean’s stomach lurches again. Threatens to send up whatever’s in there. Can’t be much, because then it growls. 

How long as his father been gone? A million years? _Come on. Think normal._ A day. Maybe, two.

Dean crawls back into bed. He names the man with the ducks George Wilson Carter. His dog is Buck. They live in the mountains and all they ever eat is ducks… 

When Dean wakes, he doesn’t even open his eyes. There’s too much hurt and stink. He doesn’t want to wake. Better to sleep forever. Better to die. His face, his hands, his chest, his butt. Everything just aches, and he’s hungry, and he stinks. 

This would be a good day to die. If he had the gun, he’d do it. No questions asked. Whether or not he’s going to Jesus. Tears slip down into his ears. He starts to wipe them with his free left hand, but it hurts too bad. Dean opens his eyes to look at the crusty flap of skin, still bloody but shriveling like a pork rind. 

A shadow in the corner moves. Dean gasps. His father is standing there, drinking a beer, watching. 

 

 


	53. Chapter 53

The look on Dean’s face is priceless. Pure terror. It’s enough to make John smile, although it smells like death row in here. The little fucker shat himself.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps.

It makes sense that he thinks this is punishment. But it’s not. It’s priming.

John hovers at the foot of the bed and his son goes still as lumber. John strokes his toes and steps around to his left side. Graciously, he gives Dean a swig of the beer. The boy coughs and frowns, but it softens those dry, cracked lips. 

You’re welcome, ingrate.

John pours beer over that injured, free hand, as well. No fucking infections. No more hospitals. Dean howls and tries to yank away. His raw-throat howling is hot as fuck. John pins the hand watching the bubbles on that long, ugly wound. That strip of skin will fall off, eventually. This boy sure has messed himself and the room. 

John drinks more, then pulls off Dean’s sweat pants. He tosses them aside and lifts Dean’s left leg. The rest of the beer trickles between his thighs and over his taint. 

Dean hisses at the cold and squirms. That asshole might still be tender. John parts the cheeks to have a look. Dean shouts.

“Quiet.”

Red, but hard to tell. John can give him something to scream about. He jams the neck of his bottle right into Dean’s twitching hole. That raises the volume.   
   
John works it in and out, chuckling as he fucks his boy with a beer bottle. He smiles and leans close enough to whisper, “You like it, don’t you? Admit it. Dirty little thing. Admit you like it, and I’ll stop.”

“Dad. Dad. Please.” Dean whimpers and grasps with his fucked up hand.

“Admit it.

“I like it. I like it. Please, stop.”

“If you like it, why should I stop?” John plunges in again, this time deeper. 

Deeper still until he reaches the shoulder of the bottle. Dean hollering and straining against his cuff. John only stops for fear he’ll stretch the boy’s tightness to hell. Why strip himself of that perfection?

He extracts the bottle and cracks it on the edge of the dresser. Brown glass crashes and shatters all over the floor. He only needs one shard for what he has in mind. 

Holding Dean’s ankle in one hand, John slices a shallow, inch-long gash in his thigh. More unholy screeching, but not only is John’s dick rock solid, so is Dean’s. 

“You really do like it, don’t you? You fucking…”

Blood drips on the sheets, but that hardly matters. John smears some over Dean’s lips, into his mouth. Then he latches onto the wound and sucks.   
Why? The idea crossed his mind, and he can. Because the more terrified Dean looks, the louder he screams, the more the hormones scald in John’s veins. He’s already feverish and dizzy, freebasing on the boy’s pure fear.

Another thing he’s been meaning to try: John folds his hand and sinking the entire thing into Dean’s reluctant hole. The bottle loosened him up good. The fingers slide in easy all the way to the lower thumb knuckle. The boy is screaming and trying to crawl away. 

“Fucking be still,” John shouts and spits on his chest.

He pins Dean’s knees to his chest and spurs in that last bit. His sphincter snaps tight around John’s wrist like a cuff. 

“Well, look at that.”

The boy isn’t looking. He’s hyperventilating. Just this side of passing out. John carefully removes his hand, opens his pants and slips a bit of blood on his dick before ravaging that hole once more.

When he’s done, John releases the cuff and lays back in the pissed up, bloody bed with his hands folded behind his head. He makes Dean stand beside him, naked and shivering, mouth and cheeks painted up with a pretty burgundy handprint. 

“Who do you belong to, Dean?”

“You.”

No hesitation. Quick learner. 

“What does that mean?” John asks.

Dean’s voice is barely a whisper. “It means… I do whatever you say.”

“That’s right,” John nods. “If I say you eat that pile of shit you made, what do you do?”

“Eat it.”

John gives him a moment to marinate in that reality before he says, “Pick it up.”

Dean frowns at his pile of shit. “With what?”

“With your hands, stupid.”

Again, no further delay before he picks it up. Stinks to high Hell. John holds his breath and watches Dean’s face. He’s going to want to kiss that mouth again, probably soon.

“Go put it in the toilet, you disgusting piglet,” he says. “And take a shower. Not too hot or you’ll bleed out all over the place.”

When the fresh-washed boy returns, John applies gauze over the fucked-up wrist and the gash on his thigh. 

“See? Good as new,” he says and pats Dean’s cheek. “I got something for you. Go get that yellow bag from the kitchen table.”

Dean does as he’s told. If he thinks of running, he thinks better of it.

“Put that on.”

Dean pulls his present from the bag, holds it up and frowns like he’s not sure how to obey. 

“Go on.”

Clumsy and clueless, he tries to pull the dress over his head. Finally, John scoots to the end of the bed and holds it low for him to step into. The dainty green clovers on the white cotton make Dean’s wide eyes shine. Or maybe it’s the tears collecting in his long, pretty lashes. 

“Open the box.”

Frowning, Dean pulls the other gift from the bag and shrinks back as if it’s a real scalp. John fixes the wig on his skull with the bangs in front. A smile plays at the corner of his mouth. Hilarious.   
His older son makes a gorgeous little girl. 

 

***

 

Before he falls asleep, Sam reads the book about Frederick Douglass again. One of his favorite American Superheroes. He taught himself to read just like Sam did. He ran away from being a slave, too. And his ‘master’ was his father.

Frederick Douglass had brown skin, but that’s not much of a difference. White milk is good. Chocolate milk is better.

In the book, it says that slaveowners forbade their slaves to read to make it harder for them to run away. Slavery is awful. Good thing it’s over. 

Sam puts his book on his bedside table and shuts off his light. In his dream, Sam’s father is standing over Dean, making him pick cotton. Only it’s not cotton. Where the soft white balls should be, there are tiny, crying babys' heads. Daddy’s making Dean pluck them off one by one until his fingers drip with blood. 

Sam wakes up in the dark with his heart thumping, his skin damp. Rather than cry out, he holds his breath and counts. By the time his brain gets to 342, he’s back to normal. Well, back to Sam.

 

***

 

“You think you can fucking lie to me.”

Another hard, cold slap. Dean blinks. Tears flood down his bright pink cheeks. 

“You tell me the truth, and it stops.” 

“Zero,” he says for the thirteenth time. 

John is keeping count. “You’re telling me while you were over there with your new father, you didn’t suck his dick, not once?”

“No, dad.”

John smacks him again. “I told you not to lie to me.”

“None. He didn’t… Never.”

John swipes a thumb over Dean’s lips and slips it inside. Doesn’t even need lipstick. “There is no way a man can look at this mouth and not want to fuck it.”

Dean shakes his head. John believed him the first time, but this is hysterical. 

“I think you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying, Dad. I… He wasn’t like that.”

“Like what?” John pinches Dean’s lower lip and uses it to tug him closer. “Let’s hear it. He wasn’t into little boys? So he was a better father? Is that what you mean?”

“No.”

“You didn’t miss me one bit, did you? Since your other daddy ‘wasn’t like that.’ You just laid around on your ass, eating his food, doing nothing to earn your way. Well, that’s not happening under my roof anymore. Do you have any idea how much money I’ve wasted, not putting you to work? That ends today.”

 

***

 

It’s weird enough to be dressed up like this, but when Dean’s father makes him leave the cabin dressed like a girl, all Dean can do is sit in the car with his knees pressed together, hunched forward, trying to make himself smaller. Sure, he’s wondered what it would be like to be female, but he’s thought the same about giraffes. 

The engine cuts in front of room 102 of a crap motel.

“You’re going togo in there and do everything that asshole says, you got it?”

Dean turns and stares at his father’s face. He still looks the same, but he can’t be real. This can’t be happening. It’s another awful dream and all he has to do is wake himself up. He pinches his leg, pinches and pinches, but nothing changes. Whoever said pinching works anyway?

“Your name is Aggie. Agnes. Got it?”

Dean nods.

“Say it.”

“Agnes?”

“You’re thirteen, and you like to suck cock. Anything else he asks, you giggle. Go.”

Dean opens his door and somehow, his leaden feet carry him to the door. He knocks and glances back at his father in the car. Can’t even feel his toes or his nose or his body anymore. He’s floating, like a ghost. None of this is real. 

A pretend man opens the door. Fat. Glasses. Smells like Italian food. He searches the night beyond Dean.

“Who brought you?”

Dean almost answers, “my dad.”

Instead, he giggles. It doesn’t sound real to him, but then again, none of this is real. 

“What’s your name?”

“Agnes?”

“Aggie?”

Dean nods. The man steps aside and lets him in. He stands in the middle of the floor, gawking like he can’t believe Dean is real either. 

“Take off your dress.”

Dean looks down at his dress. His dad’s instructions were crystal clear. 

“I like to suck cock.”

Dean is on his knees with the man’s belt in his hands when the door bursts in. Whatever happens next is too quick. There’s a loud whump. The fat man falls backward onto the bed. Dean is still kneeling. The warm blood oozing down his face isn’t his own. His dad drags him by the shoulder and shoves him into the car.  Shivering. Teeth chattering. Nope. Definitely not real.

 

***

 

Back at the cabin, John tosses the money on the bed. Five hundred measly dollars, as promised for Aggie’s services. Not a penny more. 

“You’re a real piece of shit, Dean, you know that?” 

Dean sits on the bed in his soiled summer dress, staring at his bloody hands.

“You would have done it, wouldn’t you?” His father says. “You would have sucked that ugly fucker’s brains out through his cock. You worthless piece of trash. Think you’re so cute. Who do you think will want you if I slice up your face? Huh? Would you like that?”

Dean blinks. John smacks him. His eyes turn up, mouth parted. Breathing loudly.

“Don’t look at me. Dirty little girl, sucking strangers’ cocks. You’re disgusting.” 

The next slap doesn’t even hurt because it’s not real. 

John strikes him a few more times. Dean doesn’t fight. Doesn’t protest. Takes the abuse like a wooden doll. 

 

***

 

The anger peters out like the last embers of a flame. Rage is replaced by a burst of tenderness John hasn’t felt since his son was first learning to take his dick. This boy is broken down about as far as he can go. His ego is dust and ash, as it should be. It’s time to rebuild Dean now, in his father’s image.


	54. Chapter 54

The dark is thick. It infiltrates Dean’s clothes and clings to his gooseflesh. He hides between the gnarled, low-hanging limbs of an ancient elm. His hunting partner scopes through night-vision binoculars, but doesn’t offer a peek.

“You ready?” 

Dean hefts his weapon and mumbles, “I think so.” 

“No.” His dad’s voice is sharp as his blade. “There’s no time to think, and I didn’t give you permission to die, so you must be ready.”

Dean inhales the words, listens to his heart pounding. 

“Hey. Look at me. This stuff is under your skin.”

It should be after two months of constant training. Wake, eat, train, fuck, sleep, rinse, repeat. Dean nods. 

“Any voice in there…” 

Dean blinks when his father/lover/commander plucks his skull. 

“You quiet it. Can’t afford even a wisp of doubt.”

Dean gnaws his lip. How much is a wisp?

“What are you?” his dad asks?

Scared. Terrified. Teeth chattering, thank God I already peed, witless afraid. No matter what Dean ever thought, he doesn’t want to die. He turns to run back to the car. His dad snatches him by the back of his jacket and yanks him back in place. Dean flinches even before the hand raises. He sighs as the hot, rough palm smooths down his face. 

“What are you, Dean?”

After a moment of thought, he finds the answer his father wants: “Predator?”

The old man punches his shoulder, hard. “What are you, Dean?”

“A predator.”

“What are you?”

“I’m a predator, Dad.”

“Don’t tell me. Show me.”

“I’m a predator. I’m a predator.”

“You a wolf? Huh? A shark?”

Dean is the greatest predator who ever lived. “A T. Rex.”

His father raises a brow. His head rocks back and forth, weighing the reply. Dean braces himself for fallout.

“Good. Then, be a mother fucking T. Rex.”

“I’m a mother fucking T. Rex, Dad.”


	55. Chapter 55

Every twenty years, a young child vanishes from this drowsy Wisconsin town. 

John’s diligent digging and detective work led to this witch’s backwoods den. On the surface, she’s a private, off-grid citizen, but he’d caught her red hands slowly exsanguinating the latest victim, a small, wide-eyed boy.

To ease Dean’s virginal hunt, John debilitated the female and left her gagged and bound in the corner of her cabin’s kitchen. A kill was never easier and John is here to make sure Dean takes it. 

He curls himself, like a shell, around his son’s spine. He aims the boy’s trembling hands, loosens his elbows and places Dean’s finger on the trigger.

Uncertainty is natural at first. Even a little fear. An instinctive clenching.

John first intentional kill changed him. It made him. More than anything before or since, it unraveled and reconstituted him into his true self. To be present and guide his son through this initiation is the true miracle of fatherhood.

“Just do it, and it’s done.”

The bitch snivels beneath the duct tape, an urgent humming, no doubt slick words to hex or confuse the boy.   

“Now, Dean.”

Dean shuts his eyes and does as he’s told. A bit of noise and splatter. Simple as that. John claps his back and holsters the weapon. 

“Good. That was very good.”

Dean shakes his head and a loud bark spills out of him. A high, hysterical peal of laughter.

“You all right?”

Dean covers his mouth with both hands but doesn’t seem able to stop cackling. With a hand on his arm, John guides him back to the car. Dean titters the whole drive back to their cabin and for a while after they’ve parked.   
John scratches his head and watches until the weirdness tapers to occasional giggles. 

“You like that, huh?”

Dean blinks, eyes wide, a final burst of laughter escapes and ends with a loud gasp. Tears stream from both eyes. He’s shivering. 

He’ll adjust.

John jostles his shoulder. “Meet me inside. I got something for you.”

By the time he carries in the large, wooden crate, Dean has slumped back on the sofa. A junkie plummeting from his high. John sets the box beside the coffee table with the airholes facing up. A wicked stink comes off it, but that was expected. 

“What is it?” Dean asks.

John ought to make him guess. He never will.

“Why don’t you open it up and see?”

To do so requires a crowbar which John has to retrieve from the trunk. He dashes out to the car. By the time he returns, Dean is on the floor, speaking softly to the box.

“Shshsh,” Dean says and lightly taps the wood like he’s stroking a cat’s back.

“I know how much you miss Sam,” John says, “So I got you something.”

He wrenches open the top and immediately wishes he’d told what’s inside to jump up and say, “surprise.” 

Instead, the gift lays on its side, curled up like an aborted fetus. It has pissed and soiled itself. Its skin is clammy grey. Maybe two days was too long.  

He lifts the gift out and sits it on its ass, wipes its sweaty forehead. He tries to spike up the dark hair like when he first saw it, but without gel, gravity has its way. Huge, calf-brown eyes stare drearily up at him. John was especially taken by the elegant mole under its right eye, the only blemish on otherwise ivory skin. Beauty mark.

“Pretty, huh? Almost pretty as you.”

He mock-punches Dean’s slack jaw. 

Dean’s face is drawn in disbelief. John knew he would like it. What kid doesn’t want a pet?

“What’s your name?” he whispers.

“You can call it whatever you want,” John cuts off the gift’s attempt to answer. “Come on, use your imagination.”

Dean’s shoulders rise and fall rapidly. He keeps biting his lip. Clearly, he’s adjusting to the present. It is a big surprise. 

“Uh…” He swallows. “Evan?”

“Perfect. And we can do whatever you want with Evan,” John says. “What do you think he’d be good for?”

He doesn’t want to put ideas in the boy’s head. Wants Dean to come up with it all by himself, but it’s hard not to touch such a pink little mouth, even when the lips are cracked.

“I think we should wash him and feed him,” Dean says. “Give him some clothes.”

Dull, but not unreasonable, considering the mess.

“Okay. And then?”

“Maybe … fuck him?”

“Maybe?”

Dean nods.

“Only if you want to. He’s yours.”

 

***

 

Dean requests to have his pet eat at the table, but that really is going too far. Evan is allowed to sit at his master’s feet and eat from a bowl with his hands. There’s got to be some civility in the house.  

Dean barely touches his food and can’t seem to stop staring at his pet. Glancing between them, John is highly pleased with this inspired idea. He’s less certain about Dean’s reaction. The boy looks dazed. Time to help him focus. 

John folds a hunk of meat between his own teeth and makes a proclamation before he finishes chewing, “I changed my mind.”

That grabs both boys’ attention. 

“Evan is yours, and you’re mine, and I want a show tonight,” John says. “Either you fuck him, or you can watch me gut him with this steak knife. Your call.”

He finishes his meal, satisfied his point is clear.

 

***

Supper’s over, dishes washed. It’s showtime. Dean’s ZZTop t-shirt fits Evan like a nightgown. It’s adorable. No underwear, no pants. Shirt’s enough clothing for a pet.   
   
“Why don’t you kiss him?” John says, settling into his easy chair.

This is going to be so good.

Dean acts like the boy is made of porcelain. Touching Evan’s face, warning him what he’s about to do. Asking if it’s all right.

John stomps the ground. “Stand up and fuck his face.”

Both boys look up. 

Dean exhales loudly. He nods and softly orders the little one onto his knees. That’s better.

Then, he starts to explain, “Listen, I’m going to… I need to put it in your mouth, okay?”

“Not okay,” John screams like a outraged Hollywood director. “Do it now.”

Dean does it. He shoves his eleven-year-old cock into a five-year-old mouth, and there is no way for John to stay seated. No way to keep his finger out of Dean’s asshole. No way not to murmur, “Good. That’s good. Harder, now. Make him choke.”

One hand in his son’s ass, the other on the pet’s skull. The smaller boy struggles. 

“You have to breathe through your nose,” Dean says.

John kisses his clever son’s salty cheek. 

“Hey, what are you crying for?” 

Incredulous, John releases them both. 

“Look at him. Look at him, Dean. He’s fucking beautiful. He’s yours. I gave him to you. Are you predator, or are you prey?”

“I’m a predator, Dad.” Dean dries his face with his palm. 

“No, you’re not. Not acting like this you’re not. A predator doesn’t weep over its supper.” John shakes his head, paces a few steps. Livid. "This is how you show your gratitude? Are you going tell me his mouth doesn’t feel good?”

“It does.”

“You want to try his ass instead?”

“No.”

How can his son cry while a gorgeous little angel sucks his cock? He takes Dean’s hot, wet cheeks between his palms. 

“Don’t you understand. I want to share this with you.”

“I know, Dad.”

“You think it’s wrong, don’t you? You think what I do with you is wrong?”

“No, Dad.”

“You let those people make you hate me, and hate the way I love you.”

“No, Dad. No. I belong to you. I know that,” Dean’s voice cracks. “But this kid… He’s just ... He’s not mine.”

“I just gave him to you, Dean.”

“He’s not yours either,” Dean says and winces like he expects a smack.

John should. He really ought to beat them both into the ground. Remind Dean of his choices: predator or prey. John just goes on holding his face until Dean says, “I want to let him go.”

“What?” 

“If he’s mine, that means I can do whatever with him, right? I want to set him free.”

“Into the woods?” John asks. “You know what will happen to him out there, in the dark?”

Or, he could let Dean hunt the boy. Give Evan a twenty-minute head start and then set Dean loose. Hell. John could give Dean twenty more minutes and tell him if he doesn’t catch Evan first, he’s dead meat. Now, that sounds like a great game. 

“No,” Dean says, whimpering. “I want you to take him home. Please.”  
   
John shakes his head, speechless from the sinking disappointment.

“I don’t want him, Dad. He’s not… Just, please.”

“Okay. All right. I’ll take him now.”

Dean sighs as if the entire planet has rolled off his shoulders. He pulls up his pants and gives Evan a weak smile. As John walks the little boy toward the door, Dean moves as if to join them.

“Where are you going?” John asks. “You stay here. I’ll take care of Evan.”

 

***

 

Dean faces himself in the mirror and turns up his nose at the red around his green eyes. His puffy mouth.  

This is what his father calls pretty. What that modeling photographer guy had called beautiful. 

All he sees is nasty, disgusting filth. 

He holds the big scissors in one hand and only pauses because he can’t decide what to cut up first. His face or his  
evil dick. Why did it get hard? He told it not to get hard. 

 

***

 

Sam pokes at his dinner. His parents chirp on and on about his perfect report card. As usual, they’re speaking about him, above him, around him. None of the words land. None of it means anything. 

He’s like one of his dad’s soccer trophies on the mantel. Something to be proud of, as long as he doesn’t talk back, or speak his mind, or ask to see Dean.

 

***

The car crunches along the gravel road leading down to the highway. Behind them, the cabin lights fade until there’s nothing but the headlights on trees. Stars above, and the crisp, clean mountain air all around.

“Just want you to know,” John says. “I would’ve kept you.” 

He sighs and cuts the engine. Puts the car in park. Beside him, Evan's hands are folded neatly in his lap, as if in prayer. Wise.

For the first time, John understands why Reverend Duckett might have killed his son, Christopher. If you risk life and limb to give a boy everything, to pour yourself into him. If you aim to give him something meaningful and beautiful. Something invaluable, and he dishonors that gift, it’s hard to forgive. 

On this night, when John might have murdered his son for ingratitude, God sent a ram. 

“Climb over the seat, Evan.” John steps out of the car. He stands at the back door, unbuckling his jeans. “On your knees. Facedown.”

He grabs the boy’s ankles and jerks him over to the edge. Folds him into the right position. So small. Perfect and pale. Already broken by his time in the box. 

John spits into his hand, spreads it over the head of his cock and helps himself to the gift his son wouldn’t accept. So tight, tears squeeze from the corners of John’s eyes as he drives inside. So sweet, delicious how the other end screams in agony. John punches in deeper. Evan wails louder. His back is so soft. Waist so tiny. It’s a symphony of sensations John had forgotten since that first magical time with Dean. The blood, shit and fear settle in his lungs like a drug. The struggling boy fits snug around his dick. 

It’s too good. John won’t last. He wraps his fingers around Evan’s throat. The boy sputters and claws at the hands. Just as well, John’s meaty paws are too big for a proper grip. 

John flips him onto his back. That’s better. 

“Stop fighting.”

Evan lies still, whining, but obedient. He would have been a keeper.Alas. Dean didn’t want him. 

John takes off his belt, lifts the boy’s spindly knees to his heaving chest and rams into him again.

Little Evan isn’t shrieking anymore. Probably shredded his little vocal cords. His mouth is wide open in a soundless scream. John strokes his tongue with two fingers. Slides out to the tip and the boy gasps. Thrusts back in, the boy groans. Like an accordion. 

These kids are so flexible. It’s easy to spread Evan’s knees off to either side of his head and slip the tip of the belt under his neck. John pulls it through the buckle and tightens slowly. 

Evan squeezes his eyes shut. Paws at John’s hands, his face. Molten heat surges through John’s veins. Dean, in his weakness, has given his father the ultimate gift. 

“Open your eyes.” John smacks the boy. “Fucking open them.”  
   
Dark eyes squint against the car light’s glare. John needs to see it.

The moment Evan’s eyes dim from bright anguish to dull, blank marbles. He needs to see it. Needs to time it so he releases right then.

With one hand, he pulls the belt tighter. With the other, he holds up Evan’s right eyelid. Fucks the little boy into oblivion. Ever the soldier, John forbids himself to come until the last puff of air bursts from the desperate, gasping mouth. There it is. A strained breath. Then no more. Holy shit. Fucking beautiful. Christ. It’s amazing.   
Like nothing else. God giveth dominion.

He licks into Evan’s mouth, delves into the far reaches, tongues the gaps where adult teeth would have grown, tickles the dangling uvula. Inspiration sparks. John withdraws from Evan’s ass, jerks him upright and empties rope after rope of his frothy load across his face, between the gaping pink lips.   
Fireworks dance along John’s spine. His extremities numb as his core explodes with ecstasy. Heaven. This is heaven.   
No words will ever describe this bliss. No experience will ever touch it. And no one will ever find Evan’s body.


	56. Chapter 56

The first few days after Evan goes home, Dean does his target practice and exercises without being told. He tries to anticipate what his dad wants and do that at 115%.  Sometimes, when his dad drinks a lot and sleeps late the next day, Dean wanders in the woods by himself. He brings home a fish, or a duck, even a fat black snake one time and prepares a silent breakfast. Then, at night, he warms up the leftovers for them both and goes to his cot, alone. 

His dad never touches him any more. Doesn’t talk to or look at him. There was a time when Dean would have thought that was the best thing in the world - to be left in peace. But by the fifth night of quiet, he’s going a little crazy. He stands beside the LaZBoy chair where his dad is writing in his journal and taps the old man’s shoulder. 

“Dad, are you mad at me?”

“Trying to concentrate.”

Dean swallows a thick lump of spit and bites his lip. “Do you want to do something?”

“Something like what?”

“I don’t know. Spar or something?”

They both know that sparring sessions turn into marathon fuckfests with Dean raw and bloody and begging for mercy. He’ll take it. It sucks being invisible. It’s better to be hurt than ignored. 

The best would be if his dad would lift Dean onto his shoulder like a deer he brought down, carry him to bed, singing while he slides in careful and gentle and asking if it’s all right. It hasn’t been like that in a long time.

“Not tonight,” Dad says.

“Do you want to... Should I... Could I blow you, please?”

Dean’s father finally looks up from what he’s writing, with a brow raised. “That’s what you want to do?”

Dean nods.

“Then, go on.” The old man holds the book aside.

 

***

 

John refuses to breathe a word of praise. Although his hands levitate from the armrest, he doesn’t touch the boy.

Dean Winchester gives the most vigorous, imaginative blowjob of John’s life. 

He kisses the tip, sucks hard. He fondles and licks John’s balls. He deepthroats, gagging loudly.The boy nips his daddy’s foreskin and dips his tongue into the slit. Dean doubles fists the shaft and blows cool air on the tip. Everything just as Poppa likes it, and some tricks he must have learned somewhere else. After John shudders his release, Dean shows his old man the cum on his tongue before he swallows. Gazes up with the tears and spit on his face like a nasty little cherub because he knows how much John loves to see him corrupted. 

John could bend down and kiss Dean’s profane and beautiful mouth. He could tell Dean he’s still the light of his life and everything he ever wished for. Instead, he sits back, zips his jeans and says, “All right, now, get to bed. We got a long drive and another hunt tomorrow.” 

 

***

 

The dog barks before Dean knocks. His eyes pop wide when Mark Crenshaw opens the door, but he’s not surprised when his father shoves the man inside and lops his head from his shoulders. How can he be surprised when that’s exactly what they planned?

No time to think. Dean is a TRex. He’s a predator. Mark Crenshaw, former foster father, was prey.

“Find Sam.”

Wait a minute. Sam is not prey. Not ever.

“Dean, find Sam.”

Dean’s father and commander heads off one way while Dean dashes for the stairs. His body remembers exactly where Sam’s room is, but doesn’t recall the door being locked. The knob won’t turn, so he knocks and whispers, “Sam?”

The barking stops so abruptly Dean glances over his shoulder. Did his dad just kill the dog? That dog never hurt anybody.

The light is on in the Crenshaw’s master bedroom. Dean knows where the lady’s service weapon is, as well as the one she keeps in the closet. He should run and tell his dad. 

No. His job is to get Sam. Whatever happens over there is not his mission.

And would it be so awful if Mrs.Crenshaw shoots his dad?

That’s not right. Don’t think that way. Be good. 

Dean knocks again. “Sammy, please?”

What if Sam was sleeping between the Crenshaws, like if he’d had a bad dream? That would be the only way, right? They wouldn’t bring him to bed, and touch him, and do things like that, would they? And would it be wrong if they did?

Yes, because Sam doesn’t belong to them.

Sam belongs to Dean. And to their dad. 

He bangs on the door. “Sam!”

“Dean?”  Sammy’s voice is muffled through the door. 

Dean’s heart explodes with gratitude. “Open it!”

“I can’t. You need the key.”

“I’ll be right back. You… Just, I’ll be right back.”

His initial search of Mrs.Crenshaw’s office turns up nothing. If she’s locked Sam in his bedroom, chances are, she keeps the key on herself. In her bedside table, maybe. Dean turns to march into whatever hell his dad is creating. He eases open the door and discovers his father hacking the woman’s fallen body into pieces. John looks up, streams of blood blurring his face.

“You find him?”

Dean blinks, tries not to look at the parts: head, arm 1, leg 1 

“Dean, did you find your brother?”

“Yes, sir. I need keys.”

John follows him down the hall, kicks open the door and there is Sammy, like a pot of gold at the end of a gory rainbow. Dean had forgotten how big he was. Or else he’s grown. Must have grown, because he’s almost as tall as Dean. In cool, blue Batman pajamas with his hair flopping over his eyes. 

For a split second, Evan’s face flashes behind Dean’s eyes. He should tell his brother to run. If Dean can’t kill his father, he can hold him off long enough for Sam to reach a neighbor. But if he fails, whatever punishment his father doles out might be on them both. And Dean can’t watch those things happen to Sam. It won’t be so bad for him if Sam doesn’t run. If he doesn’t fight. 

He hugs his brother close and prays for some kind of miracle. 

“Why are there bars on your windows?” John asks. 

Sam looks up at him, but doesn’t speak. 

John claps his shoulder and instructs Dean to pack one bag full of bare essentials. Underwear and a change of clothes for Sam. Good, solid shoes. Dean sneaks in a book or two, because Sam will like that. 

“You can come on home, now,” their father says.

He lifts his younger boy over his shoulder and carries him out of the room. As they enter the hallway, Dean notices the open door to the Crenshaw’s bedroom and the streaks of red and one lone leg.

“Don’t look,” he shouts, too late. 

Sam’s wide eyes swallow up all the evil Dean and his dad have done. 

 

***

 

For the first time in over a year, John holds his baby boy in his lap. He’s grown, almost a little plump. Seven years old and perfect. He wraps an arm around Sam’s waist, finger feeds him the broccoli that Dean cooked in celebration of his return. John kisses Sam’s warm neck and nibbles his earlobe. 

Dean sits on the other side of the table, watching, trembling as if his stomach is about to return its contents to the dinner plate. Sam squirms, but doesn’t protest. Always was a smart boy. 


	57. Chapter 57

John ran as far a North Dakota before getting snowed in at a roadside motel. All evening, the boys watched through the window as if all that white tumbling from on high could wash them pure as heavenly doves.  
As if Winchester and his boys’ sins and sorrows could dissolve in the sacred silence of four feet of frozen baptismal water.

Around about midnight, a naked boy stands on wobbly legs beside John’s bed.

“Just this once?” Dean asks.

John keeps his eyes on his son, impatient for the realization to cross his pretty face. Dean doesn’t disappoint—he never does—and John schools his expression into something fatherly and stern when Dean blinks confused Bambi eyes at him.

“Do you mean—”

Green eyes like lasers shift away from John to Sammy: tiny and sleeping in the other creaky single bed.

The air in the room already carries the briny tang of sweat and spunk. Dean’s lithe body is splotchy from John’s intense focus.

“I don’t think—” Dean’s voice teeters on the edge between puberty and meltdown.

John lights the last Marlboro in the pack and drags the ashtray from the nightstand to perch on his naked thigh.  
Dean’s little cock is still rigid, high and left, like his old man. John busted so hard in him that all he can do is moan around the cigarette, inhaling deeply and exhaling a sated sigh, settling in for the show. 

“He’s out like a light,” he says. “Won’t know a thing.”

John made sure of that. Sammy never did taste the crushed up Benadryl in his milkshakes. Probably thinks it’s how they taste.

Dean crawls onto the edge of the bed and hesitates there, giving John a spectacular view of his asshole. It’s mean-red and used-soft, a steady ooze of nut dripping from the open gape. Creamy pale pink sliming down his taint and his hairless balls. John licks his chops like the big bad wolf he is.

“It’s your birthday,” he reminds Dean, not looking over at the demolished store-made Transformers cake on the table in the corner.

Dean has lived up to John’s training, and he’s earned all eleven candles along with his first party. Sammy watched Dean take out each one and sucked them clean while John nursed his Jim and Coke.

Big brother’s feet don’t make a sound on the grimy carpet. He crawls into the bed with Sam. John watches intently, one hand between his legs, kneading his sore cock with thoughtless fingers.

Dean pulls back the covers revealing Sam’s tiny body in Batman pajamas bunched up on his arms and legs. His feet are bare, toes caught up in the fitted sheet. Soft pink mouth parted. He passed out on the flat pillow and has leaked a puddle of drool.

So much to see, but Dean and John are both staring at the same thing: Sam’s tiny bubble in those clinging blue pj pants. No underwear lines. Dean looks back at John and they exchange a look that aches John’s balls.

“You could drive a truck through here and he wouldn’t know,” John assures him.

Dean’s quick tongue soothes his raw mouth as he bunches Sam’s shirt up. Curls smallish fingers into the waist of his pants. When he pulls them down, Sam’s body moves with every tug. The pajama pants land on John’s bed because Dean’s the best boy in the world. John snatches them up and buries his face in the crotch, huffs like they’re soaked with paint thinner.

When he comes back into himself, Sam’s legs are spread. Dean’s between them, staring down at his brother’s pale ass. His hands rest on each cheek, as if Dean’s hunger might shatter Sam.

“It’s all right.” John’s voice rakes low in his chest. A cigarette hangs from his lip so he can pull on his dick and pinch his own nipple until his balls get a jolt. “C’mon, show Daddy what you want. Sam’s ours, isn’t he?”

Dean wedges his fingers into Sammy’s crack. Pulls his cheeks apart, spreading him as wide as he can, like they’re filming this and there’s an audience to satisfy. John’s seen Sam’s asshole before. He’s cleaned it with a rough washcloth and yellow-scented motel bar soap. He’s pushed glycerin suppositories inside of him when he was miserable and backed up, and he’s done exactly what Dean’s doing; examined him with heavy hands when Sam’s knocked out on the tiny pink miracles that once let John keep up his love song with Dean.

Yeah, he’s seen it. But he’s never watched Dean see it.

“Prettiest thing on earth, ain’t it?” 

John tugs the cigarette from his mouth and smashes it in the full ashtray. The room is hazy with smoke, golden from the lamp between the beds.

“So tiny,” Dean breathes with a reverence that nudges John’s long-dormant jealousy. 

He takes a deep breath and lets his charitable side resurface.

Doesn’t speak; doesn’t need to. Dean’s lost in Sam’s spell. Still doesn’t wet the sheets much when he comes on John’s cock, but his small dick gets plenty stiff. Acts like it knows what it’s doing when Dean’s bucking up into John’s mouth or his paw. A three-inch threat to Sam’s innocence, Dean crouches between the splay of brother’s thin thighs. Rubs his thumbs up and down either side of his obsession.

“You know what to do,” John assures him, the dry skin on his heel catching on the sheets as his foot slides up the bed, knee bent, thighs spreading. 

He spits into his hand and wraps it around his cock, thumb locking into place on the bundle of nerves beneath the head. ‘Daddy’s tickle spot.’ He rubs it out and slumps against the headboard, eyes lazing.

“Can’t just push in dry. You know how that feels.”

Dean nods, plush bottom lip sticking out at the handful of memories they share from when John was too impatient or too cruel for lube. He shifts on the bed and curls between Sam’s legs, sliding to his belly, face inches above his ass, elbows digging into the mattress to keep him spread open.

John digs a nail into his tickle spot and twists his balls hard. Dean tucks his face into Sam’s ass and presses a kiss there first. It’s the most goddamn romantic thing John’s ever seen.

The ice cream licks that follow grow ravenous and faster with each repetition. Dean’s making yummy noises without a trace of self-consciousness. He’s eaten ass before. Has licked his dad’s hairy hole. Sam’s must taste like fucking angel food cake, in comparison.

Sam huffs in his sleep, soft and sweet, arms tightening around his pillow.

Dean freezes until he’s still again. Then, he crams his little fingers in either side of Sam’s slicked up pussy and pulls hard, exposing deeper pink. He’s past the point of being able to count his age on two hands today, but he already rims like Linda Lovelace.

He shoves two fingers inside of Sam without pause or preamble, and it’s a good thing Sam’s dead to the world, because the yelp he would’ve let out would earn their room a few 911 calls. The drugs have made Sam’s body lax and giving. Dean feeds his fingers in with only the barest lick of spit.

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean whispers, left hand hidden between his own legs as he fingers his little brother clumsy and quick, three slim fingers tucked into him now, pulling at Sam’s wet rim. 

John’s almost hot and drunk enough that he’d risk a trip to the hospital just to watch Dean get his whole dry hand inside of Sam’s body. Almost. He’s started up a rhythm on his own dick, keeping the stroke slow so he doesn’t come before Dean’s inside.

“I don’t think I can fit,” Dean says.

John grins. He’d once had the same thought, when Dean was younger than Sam is now. Of course, the fat rod between his legs is a cervix wrecker while Dean’s about as long as John’s middle finger. The naivete is as charming as it is arousing.

“Use the Vaseline,” he says, nodding to the open tub on the nightstand. “And push hard.”

Dean scoops way too much grease from the tub, spreading some on his middle school prick and stuffing the rest inside Sam’s prone body, a consideration that speaks volumes about the number of times Dean’s been fucked himself.

He stares down at Sam’s sleeping form with unfamiliar softness in his eyes. When Dean bunches Sam’s shirt to bare more skin, a warning scratches at the back of John’s mind.

Dean’s hips push out. His dick in hand. John’s already on his feet by the time he mounts Sam and tries to push in, too inexperienced and eager to hit the target.

“He’s too little,” Dean mumbles, sweat collecting along his temple and above his upper lip.

His eyes are glassy and mostly pupil as he frowns down at the dark tangle of Sam’s hair. John sits on the edge of the bed and soothes a hand down Dean’s back, shushing him softly as he skirts past his balls and takes Dean’s little dick in hand.

“Daddy’s got you,” he murmurs, shoving Sam’s legs wider and stuffing a pillow up under his tummy to prop him. “C’mon. Hold his hips and push with me.”

John’s thumb sneaks inside where Sam is scorching inside and strangling like a wedding ring. The pocket of Vaseline is melting as John roots around and massages Sam open a bit more.

Sam grunts, his eyebrows pinching together before smoothing again.

John squeezes the head of Dean’s dick in beside his thumb, double fucking his baby son for a few precious seconds before he pulls out and helps Dean the rest of the way in. Finally, Dean’s tight sac is smashed against Sam’s taint. John lifts then and runs a hand down Dean’s back, pushing him forward above his tailbone, keeping him nestled inside.

“Ohmygod,” Dean huffs, already panting, sweat pouring from him in rivulets like he’s getting fucked himself. 

His eyes are squeezed shut, and he’s trembling, hands clutching Sam’s ass. The tender flesh may bruise in his grasp for an anchor.

“Feel good?” John whispers, kneading and pulling Dean’s cheeks apart to watch his hole twitch and pulse.

He lacks the discipline to keep his fingers out. He tucks in and down to lock against his prostate, rubbing insistently.

“Daddy,” Dean pleads, his face crinkling like he’s about to cry, like he’s skinned both his knees or slammed his fingers in the door.

His young body doesn’t know what to do with this: with his sudden power, or with Sam’s virginity, or with John’s invasion. He only shoves forward and grinds in a fit of desperation, pushing and pushing in a simulation of the way John works him open nearly every single night.

“I got you. Shh, Daddy’s got you. Here you go.” 

He’s probably misinterpreting, misreading Dean’s tone, but he doesn’t care. He’s on the bed and on his knees behind his older son and his longest lover. He replaces his fingers with the cock that put Dean inside of Mary. He pushes in until his belly is plastered against Dean’s back. Hands covering Dean’s hands on Sam’s hips, hauling the smaller boy back and halfway off the bed.

John doesn’t care who wakes up now. He’s having this.

“Like this,” he breathes against Dean’s ear, licking the sweat on his velvet soft buzz cut.

Sucking his earlobe while he digs into Dean’s ass, clammy skin clapping together as he fucks Dean into Sam and holds Sam in place for both of them. 

“Move with me, son. C’mon, work with me.”

Dean’s shaking between them, practically useless, spurred by the momentum of his dad’s hips. John holds Sam’s lower half off the bed, presenting him like a gift. He watches over Dean’s shoulder, thumbs moving down to pry Sam’s ass apart so he can see better. Dean’s still locked in there, the Vaseline making everything sloppy and noisy. It takes the rest of John’s concentration to still himself and keep his cock nestled inside Dean’s belly, pulsing there and waiting for Dean to get the hint.

His boy’s smart when it matters. He takes all of five seconds.

Dean works himself between them, back on John’s cock and forward into Sam’s drugged body, using the tight space John’s created to get more of everything. It doesn’t take long then. In fact, it’s heartrending, how quick it ends.

Dean slumps back, shakes apart on John’s dick and inside of Sam. Shivers replace his thrusts. Loud enough that his voice must carry through the walls. Thankfully, his youth makes his voice androgynous, something that has saved John from being found out more than once. Neighbors probably think he’s getting a baby-voiced girl pregnant over here.

“Fuck me, Daddy. Do it,” Dean slurs, so pliant against him, so unresistant that violence stirs under John’s skin.

He locks his arms around Dean’s body, crushing him against his hairy chest, Sam beneath both of them, newly deflowered and still snoring.

John pushes Dean on top of his little brother and climbs on top of them both, his thighs spreading on either side of Dean’s body. Tiny ass shoved up and jiggling against his rough hips. Dean’s hugging Sam, clutching him like a teddy bear while John bangs away inside of him for the second time in as many hours. 

The bed shrieks under their collective weight and John’s rhythm. They’re crushing Sam, maybe suffocating him, but John’s coming. Buried deep inside Dean’s clenching guts, pumping more spunk into him. John’s hips curl forward and hump Dean’s ass as he groans loud enough to echo off the fake wood paneling.

“Hurting me,” Dean mumbles when John returns into himself, his balls and brain empty. 

John grunts and lifts off his sons, his cock slimy and heavy when it pulls with a suck out of Dean’s ass. He looks down at the hole and smirks at his fine work. Gives that little butt a hard, fond slap before he climbs off the bed, grabs the half-cigarette and his salt-and-burn Zippo.

He lights up, then cleans the jizz and blood off his cock and balls in the bathroom sink.

John peeks through the curtain. Still snowing. There’s no beer, and no soft boy curled up in his bed with big, worshipful eyes. Dean’s got himself and Sam wiped down, dressed, tucked under the covers. Dean’s there, wrapped around like him a barrier.

His back is to John, hair glistening with sweat in the lamplight. He doesn’t even turn when John flicks off the bathroom light and comes back into the room. Doesn’t speak when John settles into the bed next to them and turns off the bedside lamp. A brief darkness fills the room before he finds the remote and flicks on the TV.

“Happy birthday, kid,” John mutters to the muted infomercial.

The only reply is Sam’s soft, constant snores muffled in the safety of Dean’s neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, a rousing THANK YOU! to the folks who left comments along the way. Hearing from you made this piece feel like a dialogue, and helped me feel like less of a psycho for continuing to work on it. Deep gratitude.
> 
> A/N: This chapter is edited from another writer's work and is the piece that inspired this fic in the first place.  
> However the story doesn't feel complete. So, I'll be posting a sequel here, as soon as it's finished. 
> 
> Fair warning, Part 2 is a bit different, but it leads to what feels like completion.
> 
> Feel free to subscribe if you're interested.   
> As always, I'm thrilled by comments, open to questions and willing to field concrit.  
> In every case, I appreciate you.  
> And as I hope to have on my gravestone: It's been weird.  
> ;)


	58. PART 2 - HE AIN'T HEAVY

A hideous yell rips through the house. Primal, like a wild animal mortally wounded. Dean howls and spits curses.

“God damn, fucking thing.”

With a swift kick, Dean shuts off the faucet and stops the cruel spray of frigid water even as the shampoo drips from his hair into his eyes

“God damn it,” he shouts. “Son of a mother-licking bitch.”

Lisa and Ben are probably listening. There’s no question they can hear, the way he’s howling and as skinthin as the walls are in this piece of crap, pre-fab, ticky tacky house. As shitty as it is, Dean grits his teeth and cleans up his complaints.

“Freaking…”

He stumbles from the shower, blindly groping for a towel. He paws his stinging eyes dry and tromps, sopping wet into the master bedroom, still mumbling.

“That durn thing.”

Lisa’s face is blurry, but her pity and amusement are plain. Dean did say he’d replace the water heater. Hasn’t gotten around to it.

“Not funny.”

His gaze flashes to Ben standing beside his mother. The kid makes no attempt to look away from Dean’s junk. Dean makes no attempt to hide.  
The electric clock on the bedside table blinks 7:50.

“What are you still doing here?”

Dean’s asking Ben, but Lisa shrugs and answers, “Missed his bus.”

“This is getting to be a regular habit,” Dean says. “You don’t appreciate your bus, you ought to have to walk.”

“Can’t I just ride with you?” Ben asks. “Please.”

“Your lunch is in the fridge,” Lisa gathers her underwear from the top drawer of her dresser.

“Lisa,” Dean shouts after her. “This boy is twelve years old Why are you making his lunch?”

Dean was foraging in dumpsters and begging outside of restaurants when he was younger than that. But Lisa doesn’t know about that. She shoots a pixie smile over her shoulder and and says, “I make yours, don’t I?”

It’s true. She does. Closest thing to a mother he’s had since before he can remember.

Dean sucks his teeth, tosses the towel on the bed and slides into yesterday’s jeans. He turns to find both mother and son checking out his ass.

“Well, go eat,” Dean points the way out of the room for Ben. “We’re out of here in ten minutes.”

The kid scrams. Dean shrugs on a fresh T-shirt: black with the logo from the bar down the street. Barney’s. He’s still mumbling under his breath when Lisa wraps her arms around him from behind.

“Hey, Grumpy,” she says, pressing her face to his back. “It annoys me, too.”

Does she mean the shower or the boy? He pats her hand and wills her to let go. She holds fast until Dean squirms away.

“Got to get moving,” he explains.

When Dean enters the kitchen, Ben offers him pop tart. He narrows his eyes at the boy and snatches it.

“This shit isn’t funny. Go, kiss your mom.”

They pile into the pickup and Dean resolves not to say a word. This kind of behavior can’t be rewarded. There’s traffic, because of course, there’s fucking traffic. Dean wanted to be at work by 8:30, now he’s got to take a detour to bring this jackass to school.

He leans his elbow out of the window, drops his forehead onto his fist and sighs. Dean ignores the hand on his thigh.

“Why didn’t you come last night?”

Dean firmly puts Ben’s paw back on his side of the car, where it belongs.

“I was waiti—”

“Because I got home at 3 oclock and I assumed you were asleep.”

“I tried to wait up.”

“Next time, don’t,” Dean says without looking at him. “Did you do your homework?”

“Yeah. Lisa checked it.”

“Your mother checked it.”

Ben’s hand returns. Dean scowls down at it and ignores the way his dick plumpens as those small, pale fingers creep toward his crotch. A subtle whiff of armpit odor wafts across the truck.

“Did you shower?”

Ben shrugs.

“What did I tell you? You shower every fucking day. I ought to turn around and take you right back. You want to be the smelly kid?”

Dean’s been the smelly kid. The kid in too-small hand-me-ups. The kid with state-sponsored lunch.

“Don’t yell at me.”

Dean glances over. He’s lived in places where that tone would have earned him a firm smack.

“Come on,” Ben says and gives Dean’s leg a gentle squeeze.

Little Ben Braeden isn’t so small anymore. He started squirting a few months ago, and now, the horny sucker can’t get enough. Dean got to him early and easy enough that the kid has always been willing. Now, though, Ben is eager. That should be fun, but the boy doesn’t understand the word ‘inconspicuous’. And that is a problem.

He’ll waltz into the bathroom while Dean’s on the can and just stand there, staring. That’s fine when Lisa’s not home. But this whole rewriting the morning routine is brazen. He’s not going to stop with this. Dean already knows. This ends badly.

Gridlock. Nothing to do but sit in the car and wait, like the other ten thousand assholes on the road.

“Fuck.” Dean looks at the kid. “Look, Ben. This is has got to stop.”

Ben smirks. “That’s not what you said on Thursday.”

“Thursday, your mother worked overtime. We had the house to ourselves. We fuck when it makes sense, all right? When I say. Got it?”

“Why won’t you just leave her?” Ben whines. “Then we’ll have everything to ourselves.”

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes deeply before he strikes like a viper, knocking Ben’s empty skull against the passenger window. Ben clutches his cranium, wincing. Not so fresh now, huh?

“Shut up,” Dean says. “And stop talking like that.”

“Sorry.”

“If you keep doing stuff like this—”

“I just missed the bus.”

“You missed the bus yesterday.”

Dean takes a long breath.  He's supposed to have quit this with Ben by now. He's gotten big, and Dean has promised himself time and again. It's like quitting booze, or worse. Dean only ever dabbled in the harder stuff: blow, horse, meth. This, right here, gets him higher than any of that junk.

"Fuck." He shakes his head and loosens his belt. “Get over here.”

Ben doesn’t need instruction anymore. Wind him up, and put him down.  
He dives right in, relaxes his throat and takes Dean’s whole cock at once. Like an art form.

Dean isn’t horsehung like his dad was, but it’s no small task what young Ben is doing. He shuts his eyes for a moment, appreciating pure talent.

“You love that, don’t you?”

“Mmhm.”

“Then fucking suck it, you little bitch.”

Ben moans and grabs his own crotch.

What would Lisa say if she knew her little boy was the biggest cumslut Dean has ever met?

His eyes open and he smiles sleepily at the church lady driving the hatchback in the next lane. His hand rests on Ben’s neck, occasionally applying enough pressure to give the boy a challenge. How long can you hold it?

A sharp scrape as Ben struggles to pull off and gasp. Dean hisses and smacks his ear. “Watch the teeth.”

Outside the truck, sirens sing. Approaching. Heat flares in the center of Dean’s chest. He grins widely as the cops fly past on the left side. Ben sits up and wipes his chin, watching. Still young enough to be fascinated by flashing lights.

“You’re not finished.” Dean pushes him back down. “Hurry up. Traffic’s going to start moving.”

The last thing Dean needs is a crash with his dick in Ben’s mouth. So long as he’s not under pressure, the kid blows like a porn star. There’s no question, if stressed, he’d panic and clamp his jaws.

If only Dean could make mama bear take lessons from her baby boy. Lisa’s skills do not measure up.  
Benny boy is all enthusaism, hollowed out cheeks, and slimy cumspit. Another cop zooms by as Dean tilts his hips up and shoots down his throat.

The boy sits up. “Was that good?”

Still glowing, Dean gives his cheek a soft smack.

The kid is indisputably good, but he’s going to get Dean caught. It’s just a matter of time. Something’s got to give.

Dean has already decided to spend the rest of his days in Aldie, VA. If he can help it, he’ll never leave this tiny town again. He’s seen enough of the the contiguous forty-eight to understand why folks are always begging for blessing. If God ever was around these parts, He’s good and gone, now.

Hiding out here is as safe as Dean has ever felt and he’ll be damned if he lets some oversexed pre-teen ruin his good thing. He’s never snuffed a kid to keep him quiet, but there’s a first time for every thing.

It is getting to be time for Ben Braeden to have an unfortunate accident. Damn shame.

The cars are inching along again when Ben says, “Oh, hey, Dean. I meant to tell you, somebody was asking me about you.”

Dean grabs his shirt and jerks him across the car. “What did I tell you?”

“I know. I know. I didn’t. He wasn’t, like, a cop or anything. He just asked if you were nice. I told him that you take care of us.”

Dean lets him go with a shove, the gears in his brain kicking into overdrive. Ben is right. Cops don’t sneak around, intimidating children. Then again, if Grabby’s guys are onto him, Dean, Lisa and Ben would all be fertilizing the football field right now.

“When the hell was this?” he asks, letting the sweat pool on his upper lip.

“Yesterday.”

“And you tell me now?” Dean could put a fist right through Ben’s mouth. “What did he look like?”

“I don’t know. Some guy. Tall?”

“That doesn’t tell me much, Benjamin?”

“He was a guy. I don’t know. White? Your age?”

Dean scratches his head, his breaths shortening, insides clenching.

“If you see him again, you tell me. And you don’t talk to fucking anybody.”

“I know. I just said —”

“Shut up.”

Dean silently stews for the rest of the drive. He arrives in front of the school on autopilot.

“You’re supposed to come sign me in,” Ben says.

“You know I’m not doing that. If you get detention, maybe you’ll be on time tomorrow.”

Ben swings the door open. Dean catches his backpack and Ben swivels to see what’s caught him. Dean licks his thumb and scrubs the white crust from Ben’s chin. Looks like he's had danish for breakfast. Ben catches the thumb between his lips and sucks hard. Well-trained monster.

“Have a good day, you cute little fucker.”


	59. Chapter 59

Like every morning, Dean arrives at the garage around 8:30 AM. He greets the mechanics in the three bays with a wave. He pulls on goggles and leans over their shoulders to check their work. Satisfied, he enters the convenience mart, slides behind the cash register and bends low to smooch Ms. Greta on her temple.

“Morning, beautiful.” He smiles.

“G’morning, boss." She hands him a small stack of mail. "Tall man looking for you."

Dean enters his office guts knotting over another mention of this 'tall man.'

He locks the door, drops the envelopes into the basket on his desk. Then he enters the utility closet behind his chair, unlocks the padlock and exits through an additional door that would be better suited to dwarves and hobbits.

The heat and noise smack him like a tidal wave. Grinding of steel against steel, the subsonic whir of power tools. He instantly breaks into a sweat. The smile recedes as he nods across the dimly-lit, sweltering and clasutrophobia-inducing room at Ash.

Ironic. If there’s ever fire in here, they’ll all become Ash, like Dean’s partners name.

Ash responds with a peace sign. Also ironic. The other workers don’t even look up from their respective steel operating tables. In a way, they are performing surgery: welding, sawing. Like Dr. Moreau, creating dangerous masterpieces.

Dean grabs a mask and apron from a hook. He takes a standard-issue shotgun from its case and stands beside one of his workers. With a quick nod, the welder’s mask falls over his face and he fires up the welding gun. He doesn’t have to work, but it feels good keeping his hands from being idle.

At the end of the day, he’ll dip his hands in oil, to keep up the soft-handed appearance of a desk jockey. And he will spend a few hours on the computer, handling business for the garage. But it’s common knowledge that when Dean comes in and goes right to working, it’s best to back the fuck up and leave him alone.

The man is thinking.

Dean and Ash haven’t needed to get their hands dirty for over a year. Ash busies himself overseeing their employees (a handful of Guatemalan men with no English, no qualms, but good hands and attention to detail). Mostly, Dean takes care of the front.

A lot of weapons are easy to get on the US market, but Dean and Ash specialize in a niche, black market: high-demand Title II goods.  
Business booms.

Dean’s got the connections and the charm. He pays off the DEA. Ash handles the fine details. It’s a shit-ton of easy money, not to mention the chump change that comes in through the garage.

Around noon, Ms. Greta knocks on the office door. Ash sees her on the surveillance camera, opens it from his side and shakes his head.

“This customer want to talk to the boss.”

“Jules can’t deal with it?”

“No,” she says. “They asking for the lead mechanic.”

Ash glances at Dean, who is still hard in concentration. He grimaces. “Fuck. Fine.”

He crosses the room, taps Dean’s shoulder and steps back as his partner peels up the mask, revealing a devil’s scowl. “What?”

“They need you out front, man.”

Dean works his jaw. He sighs and sets down his tools, removes the gear, and goes out to face the jackals.

By the time he returns from putting out that tiny fire, his jaw is working like he’s chewing a wad of Bubble Yum. He’s clearly on the verge of combustion. It’s only happened twice, but Ash wasn’t a fan either time.

Theirs is a strictly business relationship. Ash doesn’t inquire. Dean doesn’t volunteer. If it were work-related, Dean would say what was bothering him. They’d work it out. But he hasn’t spoken, so it must be private matters.

Dean goes back to what he was doing, searing off serial numbers. It’s mindless work that frees his mind for important calculations: such as how best to permanently silence a twelve-year-old boy.

Nothing as messy as one of these sawed-offs. Some kind of accident. Most likely on his bike. Should there be a body? Should he even go all the way? Severe brain damage would do the trick with less obnoxious wailing from Lisa. But that’s a tricky dance. How to ensure he’s speechless or that his brain is useless soup?

One thing is sure: it has to be done, and it has to be soon.

It was only four months ago that Ben had stumbled into this room, looking for Dean. A real fluke thing, because usually the padlock is on and locked. The kid had come to the office, looking for Dean. And found him back here.

He’d searched the room with confusion before gazing up at Dean and saying, “I just wanted to see you. What’s all this?”

Ms. Greta stood behind him, eye wide and apologetic, but Dean was the jackass who left the padlock open, in his haste.

“Wow.” Ben picked up a gun.

Dean yanked it from his hand.

“Sorry,” Ben said. “Hey, Ash.”

“Sup, Squirt?”

That was Dean’s new nickname for Ben, for obvious reasons. He hadn’t given Ash permission to use it.

Fifteen years ago, Fate introduced Dean to Ash Lindgren at a gun show. Nowhere near as dumb as he looked. Possibly genius, though Dean cared less about his IQ than his discretion and follow-through. Once they got comfortable with each other, the guy had mentioned the snoozing, little town where he grew up: the perfect place to set up an operation. Dean sensed Ash’s hots for him, but that was the case with a lot of folks and it often worked out to his advantage. It gave him one easy card to play with people. A lot of guys don’t even know how homo-friendly they can be until they met a guy like Dean.

As soon as he’d managed to usher Ben from the factory (as they called it), Ash had asked,  
“So, what are you going to do about that?”

Dean had peered into Ash’s eyes and replied, “You don’t worry about it. That’s my household.”

He wasn’t going to let that mullet-wearing pencil-neck, or anyone else, tell him when to pull his own trigger. Of course, Ash, the little weasel, backed down, mostly.

“Yeah, well, just remember, it’s my ass on the line, too.”

“That’s my kid,” Dean said. “And he’s not going to say shit.”

So far, there’s no evidence that Ben has mentioned the room to his mother, or his grandfather, or even one of his little buddies from school. But it only takes one slip, or if the kid gets pissed off.

The first time his pocket buzzes, Dean ignores it. There are only three contacts in this phone and three people who have the number. It buzzes through to voice mail. Then the person tries again.

An emergency?

What are the chances the universe has taken care of the thing with Ben. That would simplify his life. Dean would show up at the hospital, play the step-father (hell, no, they’re not married) with a somber face and an arm around Lisa’s shoulder.

He 100% believes in that universe stuff, by the way. He’s seen some wild coincidences. Survived things he shouldn’t have, and for no good reason. Not like he’s making the world a better place.

Dean opens the door and steps into his office. He secures the padlock behind him before answering the phone.

“You know, I am actually working here, Lees?”

That’s his standard daytime greeting.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” she says. “I just… I need you to bring the wine tonight.”

Dean sighs. The Universe isn’t going to off the kid for him. That would be too easy.

“And nothing cheap,” Lisa adds. Sassy bitch.

“I got a cellar full of beer. I don’t drink wine.”

“Yes, but The Corporal does. You know that.”

“You know, honestly, Lisa, I think I’m going to be catching the flu tonight.”

“Why do you have to pull this every single time?”

“It’s always the same song and dance,” Dean says squeezing the stress putty he got from Ben for his birthday. “Why don’t you call him off my back?”

“You can do dinner once a month, Dean. It’s not asking that much,” she replies. “And bring the good stuff.”

Dean hangs his head.

“Oh, and it may come down to the wire for me. Can you grab Ben from the library?”

Dean places the ball back on the desk. He could argue. He’s got plenty on his mind without this dinner bullshit. He could bow out of it, but it’s less conspicuous to just frown and suffer, as always.

“Yeah. I’ll get him.”

"Oh, hey," Lisa says before hanging up. "Some weird guy came by the hospital today. I told him I didn't have time to talk but... Are you in some kind of trouble?"


	60. Chapter 60

To avoid unnecessary time alone in the house with Ben, Dean stays late at the garage. He instructs the boy, by text, to be ready when he arrives.

Dean sits in the warm truck, under the darkening sky waiting when Ben bounces down the steps in a yellow button-down shirt and a pair of skinny jeans. He looks damn good, but Dean’s mind is occupied with figuring out how to do his worst.

Lisa tells the kid all the time to buckle his seatbelt. As usual, Ben ignores his mother’s instruction. Dean could crank it up to 95 MPH and slam his truck into a tree. It’s too risky. Unnecessary recklessness. But the fact that he’s considered it shows how desperate he’s getting.

“How was your day?” Ben asks.

Dean snaps his head around to look at him. “What?

Ben scoots a few inches closer and fumbles with Dean’s belt. He’d changed into a clean button-up before leaving the office, but smells like he’s been working all day. Sweat and industrial smoke. Young Ben doesn’t seem to mind. He paws until Dean swats his hands away. The kid has as many limbs as an octopus, with none of the dignity.

“Ben, knock it off,” Dean says. “You had soccer today?”

The brakelights in front of him flare red and he brakes, as well. Deer crossing. Ben’s back. Handsy little fuck.

“Why won’t you let me?” He whines. “Doesn’t it help you relax?”

“Not right now.”

“I know my grandpa makes you nervous.”

“He does not make me nervous.”

Lisa Braeden’s former military/cop father reminds Dean of his own. From the salt and pepper hair to the gruff voice, Charles Braeden AKA “The Corporal” is the reason Dean left this town the first time.

But he’d always returned, every few years, to do small transactions with Ash and fuck around with Lisa and Little Ben. It was too perfect to stay away. Dean can’t even count how many times she dropped guys because Dean was back. But he never stuck around for more than a couple weeks, partly because of The Corporal.

Then, a couple years ago, the garage came up for sale, Ash suggested Dean make a bid on it. At the same time, Lisa’s dad went through some kind of seminar and turned over a leaf so bright-green and shiny that he publicly (in front of Lisa and Ben) apologized for ever doubting Dean’s love and commitment. The old dog promised to either support them or stay out of their business.

Lisa teared up, hugged her dad. Dean didn’t trust it. At least not fully, but it did seem like an omen. He bought the shop and the rest was his story.

“You should let me,” Ben says and crawls to Dean’s side at the next stop light.

Dean tosses the boy back against the passenger door. “And you ought to listen when I tell you something.”

Ben pants and stares, supporting himself on his knuckles like a gorilla. “Dean, please.”

This needs to end this soon. Maybe tonight. Not now? After this damn dinner. Got to keep everything looking normal right up until.

Not that Dean wants to gank the kid. He doesn’t derive any pleasure from that kind of thing. Never enjoyed killing. He’s not some kind of monster. But what choice does he have? What choice does Ben give him?

At first, it was just sweet, sloppy kisses. Back when Ben was three. That’s all it was supposed to be. Maybe a little petting. What most people don’t know - or want to know - is that kid that little have a vibrant sexuality. Ben would respond with his own avid slurps and a tiny erection, smaller than a thumb.

Dean loves children, as much as he loves women. Looking out for them. Being kind. Soaking up their gratitude like a salve.

But Ben Braeden has cornered him. Compels Dean to keep this shit going, when it should have ended long ago: before puberty, when Ben was young enough to forget that Dean was his first teacher. He might have a vague recollection of a friendly hand in his lap. Ben had grown big enough to invite the stiff dick down his throat. This thing has spun out of Dean’s control, and he only knows one way to make it stop. When all else fails, Death works.

Ben bows his head. Shit. He’s going to cry. That’s the last thing Dean needs. He can’t go into The Corporal’s house with a crying kid.

“Look. Hey.” Dean opens his arm like a wing. “Come here.”

When Ben finally cozies under, Dean kisses his hair, pats his shoulder.

“It’s just not the time for it, okay?”

“You’re mad at me.”

“No.”

Dean’s boiling angry, but what good would it do to say so?

“I just want to make you feel good,” Ben says, wiping his snot on Dean’s clean shirt.

“How do you think I’m going to feel if you walk into your grandfather’s house with a belly full of my cum?”

Ben shrugs. “Good.”

Dean’s still burning, but there’s a grimy tinge to the heat now. He imagines looking into the old man’s face knowing he’s just filled up that little boy he holds so dear, and the old fart’s got no idea.

The only thing is, if his DNA is on and in the kid, Dean has to completely get rid of the body. He didn’t want to do any boiling or burning.

But why not take him one more time, for the sake of old times?

Dean takes a little detour, pulls into Aldie Mill Park. When he cuts the lights, they’re alone in the purest dark. There’s always a chance of a ranger coming by at this hour, but Dean will deal with that if it occurs. He opens his pants and unceremoniously, pulls the kid’s face to his crotch.

“Wait, Dean,” Ben squirms out of his grip. “Will you do my ass?”

They’ve only done that a handful of times, always at Ben’s request. Of course, it feels fucking amazing. Dean’s never felt anything so tight in his life. But he doesn’t do it because he wants it. He does it because Ben begs, and that takes the shine off.

Ben scrambles to lower his own pants. He get on his knees, Dove-smelling hind parts in the air. There, in the center, like a cherry on a cupcake, is the steel nub of an anal plug.

“Who told you to put that in?”

“Just ... wanted to be easy for you.” Ben peeks over his shoulder.

Dean slaps his ass. “That means you went in my stuff. What have I told you?”

Smack. Boy hiss.

“Stay out of my shit, Ben.”

All Dean needs is for the kid to find a gun and think it’s cool to carry that to school. A harder smack begets a louder hiss and a whined, “Sorry.”

“Yeah, I bet you are now.”

Dean spanks until his hand is buzzing, and Ben is whimpering. No doubt, his cheeks are a bright raspberry pink, but that’s not visible, even now that Dean’s eyes have adjusted to the dark. Can’t make it so bad the boy can’t sit or walk properly. Just enough to make him remember this moment all night.

Dean spanks until his dick is good and hard. “You used lube?”

Ben moans yes.

Dean has taught his pupil too well. He holds himself in place, pulling the boy with his right hand, careful to align as Ben eases back, gasping loudly, slick and nearly as tight as the very first time. Two short years ago.

Holy fuck. So good.

Dean wouldn’t have to snuff Ben. He could grab his stash, take this boy, and run.

He drives all the way in, both shaking and moaning as the muscles move beneath their skin like tectonic plates.

Dean’s been running his entire godforsaken life. It’s time to be still. All Dean wanted was a family and a business of his own. If Ben has to be the last cull before that happens, so be it.

Dean pulls out to the tip, wraps his hands around the thin neck. Not too tightly, just testing the feel. Shoves in with a mean grunt.

It’d be so easy to choke him out now. He could say Ben wasn’t at home.  
No. Be smart.  
But someone must have seen him leave soccer practice. Saw him arrive at home, and leave with Dean.  
No. This can’t be rushed. Ben Braeden will have the honor of being Dean’s last kill. For real this time. He’s never been sloppy or stupid before. He ain’t going to start now.

Ben moans and drops his head. Dean’s hands are on his hip bones. Ben lowers his face to the seat so his hands are free to grips Dean’s wrists. Not trying to break free. Holding on. Bouncing back harder. Humming, grunting and occasionally, sobbing, “Yes.”

The heat of ten thousand suns bursts in Dean’s chest. If he could only feel a fraction of this intensity with Lisa. With women, he never has trouble getting hard, or following through. But he’s like a machine performing a task. There’s none of the blaze he feels with Ben, or other lovers like him. Even though all Dean ever did before Ben was kiss them. Fondle. That was enough to fill him up with liquid love. Their honesty. The purity of not just their bodies, but their minds like water to a parched soul.

“Do it worse,” Ben says. “Make it hurt.”

“Jesus.”

There’s no time for anything before Dean slams home, shooting, shuddering. He drops his forehead on Ben’s back, panting for air.

“Shit.”

He jerks the boy between his thumb and two fingers, fiddling his balls with the other hand. Now that Ben can come, Dean always sees to it that he does.

He slides under Ben’s nice shirt, pinches a nipple. Baby boy gushes down Dean’s fingers and eats it like a good boy. Dean is still up to his balls in Ben’s hole when the boy asks in a whisper, “Do you love me?”

This shit again.

“Yeah,” Dean mumbles with his arm around Ben’s ribs.

It won’t be any consolation if Dean explains that he doesn’t love anybody. The lie is easier.

“Get the baby wipes.”

Ben leans over and opens the glove compartment. Dean’s dick pops free.

“More than you love my mom?” Ben asks while he’s cleaning his hole.

“Quit talking like that. We’re a family all right. Mommy, Daddy, Baby. Remember when you used to say that?”

Used to be the cutest damn kid. Round face, huge brown eyes. At first, Dean didn’t think he’d touch him at all. Then, it was just going to be kisses. Flicking his little pecker. How’d it get like this?

“Come on.” Dean holds out his hand for Ben’s trash. “We don’t want to be late.”


	61. Chapter 61

Lisa’s Infiniti is already in the driveway. Dean parks on the street in front of her father's house. The Colonel's bungalow is just a cookie cutter version of the other homes on this block, but under the dark of night, the lighted windows stare like ominously bright eyes, watching Dean's every move. 

He hands Ben the bottle of wine and strolls to the door with his hand on the boy’s neck. Fatherly calm. The gentle squeeze is intended as an assurance.

Ben peers back over his shoulder in obvious anguish. Dean grabs his arm and hisses, “Hey. Fix your face.”

It has the opposite effect. Ben sinks into a pit of sobbing fragility. He’s been crying off and on all the way over here. As Ben scrambles to cover his face, the bottle slips from his hands, scattering glass and expensive wine on The Corporal’s concrete porch.

“Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? Pull it together.”

Ben wraps his arms around Dean’s belly and hugs tight. The kid is cracking apart.

This ends tomorrow. Work will be Dean’s alibi. Ben will miss the bus in the morning. Dean will insist he take his bike. Ben will cut through Denison Park like he always does. He’ll never make it to school.  
There will be no body.

Dean will half bury the bicycle. This time, tomorrow night, he’ll be out with Lisa, canvassing the neighborhood for a dead boy they’ll never find. She’ll hold out hope forever.

Have you seen this child?

Dean will have to marry her then, give her more kids, though not right away. He’ll wait a year to propose. Maybe say Ben told him to in a dream. With her crystal-worshipping, chakra healing nonsense, she’ll love that sort of thing.

When Ben stops sniffling, Dean peels him off, holds his shoulders. On the ride over, Ben had kept pushing the point, confessing his undying love for Dean, begging him to leave his mom. Dean had responded the way he always does, by telling Ben to shut the fuck up with that. That’s when the waterworks went loose,

Slowly, gradually, Ben’s stuttering breaths are becoming more even.

“All right?”

The kid nods. Dean flashes a smile, wipes Ben’s face with his thumbs. No point showing how pissed this kind of thing gets him. If he yells, they’re back to square one.

“What are you going to say?”

“Um…” Ben shakes loose a thought. “Bullies?”

“That’ll work, only then your mom’s going to freak out and ask who.”

“Failed a history test?”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Good. Okay, that’s good.” Dean pats his shoulder and knocks.

He announces the mess on the front porch, takes the papertowels and broom to clean up. He’s not even present for Ben’s presentation about his puffy eyes. The kid is a brilliant liar when he’s prepared. It’s those unanticipated moments Dean fears.

The Corporal is no cook. Then again, neither is his daughter. Dean chokes down the mushy peas and tough steak. He grumbles and fidgets through Jenga. Family game night makes him nervous. He’d rather be out hunting.

“So, how’s the shop coming along, Dean?”

“It’s all right, sir.”

“Don’t be modest, baby.” Lisa hangs on Dean’s arm. “We’re going to Maui next month.”

Ben watches, blank-faced. He’s said before how much he hates that his mother can touch Dean any way and anywhere she wants. Dean winks and he softens, as if the first layer of a spell has shattered.

“Been thinking about bringing in the Bronco,” the Corporal says.

“Do it,” Lisa says. “Dean will work on it himself. Won’t you, honey?”

She kisses cheek, strokes his hair. She has no idea how much it turns his stomach when she touches him this way, especially in front of people. He half-smiles and says, “That’s right.”

Lisa pecks his lips. Dean shudders like a cat shaking breath from its ears.  
She notices and frowns. For all she doesn’t see, Lisa is keyed in to Dean’s minute responses. To diffuse her disappointment, he offers to play the guitar. Usually, when she asks, he declines. The Corporal used to play, but his arthritis put an end to that. The old man encourages the music, too.

The ploy works. Everybody’s smiling, except Dean. Doesn’t like playing people’s clown, but what choice did he have?

Ben requests: Can’t Help Falling in Love with You.

Dean’s fault. They’d had an Elvis marathon one week when the kid was getting over the flu.  
It’s Ben who delivers guitar to his lap, but Dean shakes his head and plays Good Golly Miss Molly, instead.

The Corporal claps and sings. Lisa then requests the old Irish classic Molly Malone, tugging Ben’s sleeve to make him sing. The kid turns up his nose like she’s offering him a platter of snakes to eat.

Lisa laughs and sings along, dancing a clumsy waltz with her father.

When the music dies down, the Corporal offers Dean a cigar, which he accepts, but doesn’t light.

“Benjamin, it’s time you tell grandpa what you did,” Lisa says, suddenly stern.

Ben looks at both men, cheeks pink, lip hiding between his teeth.

“Yes, Dean’s going to hear it, too. And whatevr punishment he comes up with is what you get.” She straightens her spine. “God, sometimes, I swear, Ben… Tell him.”

The boy lowers his eyes and shakes his head. It must have been bad. Fighting? Smoking?

Lisa finally says, “They caught him masturbating under his desk.”

Dean turns his bark of laughter into a cough.

“I don’t even know what to do about this.”

“I’ll think about it,” Dean says.

“There were pictures,” Lisa continues. “On his phone. Do you want to tell him about that?”

“Mom.”

“A penis.”

Ben drops his face into his hands.

Dean doesn’t send this kid dick pics, but he’s got a bad hunch there’s a left leaning, veiny eight-inches on Ben’s phone. A penis that would be hauntingly familiar to himself and Lisa if they were to take a look.

“Where is this picture now?” Dean asks, keeping his voice even.

“The counselor made him erase it. She suggested we talk to him about his sexuality.”

“Jesus Christ,” The Corporal says. “The boy’s not thirteen years old. Hardly knows what the hell his dong his for. Can he get through puberty, for Christ’s sakes.”

With that, the old man stands and wordlessly invites Dean onto the balcony. He casts a desperate glance over her shoulder as he follows.

“What happened to the days when kids got in trouble for fighting?”

It’s like being in a commercial for male adulthood: cigars and scotch. Ben’s face plastered to the other side of the glass. Moon rising on the other side of the trees lining the Corporal’s quarter acre of Heaven.

“So, have you thought any more about our last talk?”

The old man was nothing if not persistent. Generally, Dean gives a canned answer: “When the time is right.”

Of course, he’s considered marrying Lisa. He’s not going to do that or anything else because some old man tells him to. He did that enough when he was a kid.

Sometimes, he’d shake the corporal loose with an half-true excuse about money.

Dean is actually waiting until he’s sure no one is on his trail. Not cops. Not Grabby. Not any of the countless assholes with their rightful vendettas. On the other hand, why should he marry her at all? There’s no benefit that he’s not already getting. Nothing extra in it for Lisa, whether Dean stands in a church and repeats some bullshit vows or not. That rigamarole is not going to make him any more or less comitted to her than he is right now.

Before now, the only reason to marry her would be so she didn’t marry someone else. That ain’t never been good enough. But he’ll do it. Once Ben is gone, shackling himself to Lisa will be the least Dean can do.

For the first time, Dean doesn’t deflect or change the subject. He leans his elbow on the railing, takes a puff of his cigar, blows out a ring and surprises himself with sentimentality.

“If you knew me, sir, you’d be a little less eager to call me son.”

A solid hand falls on his shoulder. Dean starts, but subdues the instinct for violence. He stands upright. The corporal takes the subtle hint and removes it.

“I could tell, the first time Lisa brought you around, that you seen some dark things. War-dark. Hell, maybe done a few.” The old man nodded to himself, as punctuation. “Lisa sees it too and she worries for you sometime. I’ll tell you right now, boy, if there’s one thing that can cleanse men like us, it’s a real love.”

Dean hawked and spat over the rail, only aware as his mucous was falling how rude the gesture must appear. He’d needed to clear his throat. Bracing himself for censure, he faced his inquisitor.

The corporal chuckled and clapped his shoulder. “Nobody’s perfect, Dean. What I know is that my daughter loves you. And that you’ve been terrific with Ben.”

If he had any idea.

“And frankly,” the old man spreads his hands in a shameful Marisa Tomei impression. “Her biological clock…”

Dean tries to smile.

“Aw, I can’t do it. You’ve seen the movie.” The Corporal chuckles at his own painful joke. “Lees  
didn’t put me up to this, but it’s time, son. Nobody’s aging backwards. Ben wants siblings. I want grandkids. Lisa won’t do it out of wedlock again and I’m glad of that. But since she won’t cut you loose, you’re the missing link here.”

Dean drinks and holds his tongue. He’s already decided, about everything. But he’s not going to allow this man to think he’s the decifing factor. Every time the Corporal asks, he pushes back the timeline, on principle.

“Just think about it. There are far worst things than having a family.” The handsy old touches Dean’s back. “Saved my life.”

“Whatever happened to you?” Dean asks, taking a final drag before he extinguishes his cigar. “You find Jesus or something?”

“Something.” The corproal smiles. “I don’t look at life the same. It’s not me against everybody else anymore… I can give you the information. You check out the program yourself.”

“Yeah, no, thanks. No Kool-aid for me. No offense.”

“Even if the Kool-aid gives you a little peace of mind.”

“Peace of mind is self-delusion, Corporal. A man needs to stay on his guard, so he can take care of those things that need tending.”

“I won’t argue with you there.”

This clap to Dean’s shoulder becomes a linger squeeze. It kicks up a thrill of ancient fear and lust. Dean has been reading tones and touches all his life. Over the years, he’s developed several techniques for deciphering a person’s intentions and the level of threat they present. The old man doesn’t mean it ‘that way.’ That’s just how Dean’s nervous system is taking it.

He always wonders, whenever he meets someone. The Corporal’s no different. What would it take to seduce this old man? Just to know. Dean would take his wrinkly cock in a heartbeat. Hell, might even be able to get the old timer on his arthritic knees and shoot his sour spunk all over Dean’s face. He’d have to leave town after that. It’s the only reason he hasn’t tried it. Always enjoyed a challenge like that.

At the thought, a cool smile spreads on Dean’s face and the corporal reflects it back.

“Yes, sir,” Dean says. “I’m thinking about it.”


	62. Chapter 62

“You ride home with your mom.”

Ben sulks like a little bitch, but Dean’s got something for him. Tomorrow morning. A small step for Dean Johnson. A giant shock to the Braeden family. 

Lisa doesn’t try to keep Dean from going out. She doesn’t make a peep, or ask where he’s been. It’s probably the reason he keeps coming back to her. She’s a good woman. And Ben’s a good kid. None of what’s coming is hard feelings. Just the way it has to be. 

He rolls down the window and shouts as he’s pulling off, “Get that math homework done. And don’t give your mom a hard time. I ain’t kidding.”

Lisa will suffer forever if she argues with the kid on his last night. 

The plan is clear. Dean just needs to get psyched up for it.

He sails his truck past Aldie town limits, floors it the two hours to Barcode Richmond. The club is obnoxiously loud, 90s pop music blaring into the parking lot. Dean Johnson hates this music, but he’s not here to dance. 

Keen eyes find him at the door. One skinny cowboy looking fuck trails him to the bar. 

Dean growls over his shoulder, “Not interested.”

With a gallant tip of his head, the cowboy backs off. Dean drinks his first couple of rounds in solitude, watching the dance floor. He catches himself whistling along to Paul Abdul. He intentionally knocks back every attempt at conversation from every southern stallion that tries to saddle up beside him. 

The next part is pure gamble. 

A couple men have their shirts off, sweat gleaming off rippling abs as they gyrate and bounce. At a table across the bar, pale-blue collar desk jockeys engage in intense political discourse. They look like a joke: a librarian and a school teacher walk into a gay bar... 

To Dean’s left and two stools down, he finds a pair of likely candidates. 

Likely, why? He wouldn’t be able to describe the process by which he selects any better than you could explain how you know you need to shit. A sensation of pressure?

They’re gym rats in t-shirts one size two small. The closest one has the start of a sleeve tattoo and spiked blond hair. Twenty-something badasses. Hopefully not shrivel-dick HgH cases, but only one way to know for sure. 

Dean steps between them and raises his hand to the bar tender. 

“Excuse me, buddy,” Half-Tat says, with a growl that means he’s ready to crack a stool over any cock-blockers skull. 

Dean turns to him and smiles. One solid look at this face, this mouth and the guy’s brow tweaks with interest. It’s like having a magic power. Usually, Dean can even control it. 

“Can I help you, pal?” The guy’s tone is agreeable, as if he sincerely wants to be of assistance rather than kick Dean’s ass to Kingdom Come. 

“Hope so,” Dean says, cutting to the chase. “Which of you boys is bigger?”

He wets his lips. 

The guy behind him wraps an arm around his waist and whispers, “That would be me, sweetheart.”

“All right, then. You first.”

Dean finishes his shot, hisses like a gila monster and slams the glass on bar.

Five minutes later, he’s out back with a puddle of denim around his ankles, forearm on the cool brick, face buried in the crook of his elbow. The back door of the club squeaks open, letting out a brief burst of MC Hammer before it shuts again.

Playdate!

Thing One latches on to Dean’s hips, slides his cock between his cheeks - not yet penetrating, but not beating around any bushes. He’s advertising the aptness of Dean’s choice. 

Dean always chooses well. He’s brought three for good measure. The other two have lowered their pants below their asses, stroking in anticipation of their turns.

None of them talk about rubbers, but Thing Three asks whether Dean has lube. Thing One answers the question by dribbling spit onto Dean’s lower back. His rough fingers paw it into place, approximately near Dean’s hole before he lines up his dick. No preamble, no warmup. He ploughs ahead and starts fucking.

Hallelujah!

Hurts real good. 

It burns every bit as much as the last time Dean put himself in this position. It’s been a while. Getting fucked is not usually his jam, but this is a special occasion. Nothing has ever put him more into the mindframe for killing than getting good and brutally fucked.

The guy hooks a few fingers in the corners of Dean’s mouth and traumatizes his ass. Dean arches into the palm on his lower back and relaxes his muscles like the professional he once was. No amateur himself, Thing One is on a mission. The pain sears into torture.

Dean curls a fist and says, “Harder.”

He gets what he’s asked for. He’s going to be walking like a penguin for days. As the tears start to stream, the laughter bubbles up in the pit of him and spills from his mouth.Thing 1 mashes his face against the brick and Dean laughs even louder. 

“Harder.”

When Dean feels the tear back there, he’s reminded of his dear, old dad. Tears start slow and then stream. It bubbles up in the pit of his stomach. He’s laughing out of control when the guy pulls out and shoots all over his ass. 

Why do guys do that? Such a waste.

Thing Two is a minute man, but he fucks like a steam engine. Dean’s knees are jelly by the time that one pulls out and wipes off his dick on the tail of Dean’s shirt. 

One and two high-five each other. Their buckles jingle in the dark, voices receding and then lost to the din inside the club. 

“Dude, are you okay?” Thing Three asks with a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Just fuck me, man.” 

Dean is winded now, as if he’s been boxing. Liquid cools as it oozes down his thigh. Jizz, possibly blood-tinged.

“Just do it.”

Dean doesn’t hear the pussy leave. The door swings open, clangs shut again. He holds his position a moment longer, catching his breath. There’s an abrasion on his forehead. Not deep, but throbbing loudly enough to battle the sharp ache in his ass. The more pain the merrier.

“Dean Winchester?”

He snaps up quickly, as if strings on his shoulders had pulled him upright. As he stoops to fix his clothes, a sweep of puke-green vertigo rushes behind his eyes, sinks down his sinuses. He swallows it and regards his accuser. 

Hasn’t heard that name in years. 

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Friend of a friend.”

Real likely, mother fucker. The last people to call him Winchester were associated with Grabby Himmel and that weasel would have sold his own mother for a popsicle.

“I’ve just got one question and I’ll be out of your hair, Mr. Winchester.” 

The man is tall. Well over Dean’s six feet. This must be the fucker who was questioning his family, Ms. Greta. 

He remains squarely in the shadows when he asks, “Would you say you’re a good person?”

What the fuck kind of question is that? Who asks that? For a chilling moment, Dean sees horns, pitchfork, bifurcated tail of the demon his dad always babbled about. Just as fast, the hallucination passes. 

“Well, that depends on your definition of good, doesn’t it?”

Dean approaches the man, as if for a closer look. When he stands within a foot, he frees the switchblade from his backpocket holster and jams it into his inquisitor’s carotid artery. Deftly, he leaps out of the way, careful to avoid the blood seeping from around the knife.

Just like they always do, the man raises his hands to the knife, garbled nonsense simmers crimson from his lips. Eyes wide. Most people who die this way lack the strength or resolve to remove the weapon. This man manages and the fountains pray issues forth in time with his slowing pulse. It never ceases to amaze Dean how much blood there is inside an adult male. 

Dean never saw a demon or a witch or a ghost. He saw his father kill people and call them nightmares. 

This man is on his knees. He collapses facedown in the dark pool of his own filth. If he hadn’t been so committed, the mess could have been averted. Ah, well. Someone will clean it up. It won’t be Dean Johnson. 

Dean busies himself searching the pockets, regrettably sullying his hands in the process. He does, however, recover a pistol, a wallet and a cell phone - actively in the process of recording their conversation and its owners’ last grunts. 

“Fuck you, Grabby,” Dean says for the record, although he has every intention of destroying the device. 

He scrolls through the contact list. No Grabby. No Gabriel. No Himmel. Of course, the fucker could be using a code name for this hit. Or, of course, the gun could have been sent by any other nameless enemy Dean’s made over the years. 

All it takes is a glance at his recent calls for Dean to learn who sent the man. The last person this devil called was Wesson,  
Sam.


	63. Chapter 63

When Dean was a kid, Grabby used to put maxi pads in his briefs after a vigorous weekend with a senator or a judge. He doesn’t remember how his dad disposed of dirty evidence. As an adult, Dean rolls up and stuffs his messy drawers low in the kitchen trash.

The toils of this night are singing a dirge in every atom of his body. A hot shower might do him good, but doesn’t want to risk waking Lisa. Even though she sleeps like the dead, he’s already taking chances sneaking around in the dark bedroom, stuffing clean underwear and socks into a gym bag. 

He wouldn’t have even risked coming back, but his favorite blade was in the bedside table. 

Dean casts a final glance at her peacefully sleeping face. Good woman. Deserves better anyway. So does Ben. God knows Dean never should have touched him. Maybe the kid can work it out now. Be slightly less fucked up than Dean. 

No point ending him, since Dean can’t stay.

He creeps between the walls he’d promised to repaint, tiptoeing across the squeaky fucking hardwood like a teen evading his parents’ curfew. It’s with full authority that Ben flings open his door and shouts, “Hey!”

“Shhh.” 

Instinctively, Dean turns, covers Ben’s mouth with a palm and shoves the boy back into his room. 

Ben’s body offers no resistance. He slackens, clings to Dean’s arms with his parted mouth tilted up for a kiss. Dean lets him go and shuts the door, but Ben humps his leg like a horny puppy until Dean smooshes his hand in the kid’s face.

“Knock it the fuck off,” Dean whisper-shouts. “Sit down.”

Ben perches on the edge of his bed with his hand on his crotch, knees pressed together. 

“What the hell, man? Why are you so fucking wound up all the time?”

“I just…” Ben’s leg bounces. “I want it.”

Little cock junkie. 

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says. 

He used to be like that. Body always prickling at the slightest attention, or even at the thought of sex. Sometimes the most random shit would set him off. An eyeless teddy bear in a dump. A man yelling.  
Puberty is inevitable, but Dean primed this pump. He put Ben in this predicament and unlike most  
parents, he knows how to help. 

Dean drops his bag in the corner and kneels between the boy’s knees, rubbing his thighs. He nudges Ben’s hands aside and starts to pull at the elastic of his PJs. Aldie farewell.

Ben whispers. “Can I suck yours?” 

“You don’t want--”

Ben shakes his head. “Please.”

This is ridiculous. Lisa’s down the hall. Dean ought to go. The address from the dead man’s phone is a three day drive. Then again, he won’t be coming back this way. 

Dean glances at the door, stands and loosens his buckle. Ben jerks himself while he suckles like an infant. Like the growing boy he is. Dean’s fingers stroking through his hair.

As always, Ben comes quickly, a little squirt of watery jizz on his fingers. He cleans on a sock and and tosses it into a corner. A boy after Dean’s heart. 

Dean doesn’t need to come. They’ve said their goodbye. He steps back and starts to put himself away. Ben grabs his pants, holding them down.

“No, I want it. Please.”

Dean scratches his eyebrow. His legs tremble and shake as Ben takes him whole, hollows his cheeks, sweetening the pressure. It doesn’t take long like this before Dean is panting, slipping up his zipper before he swings on his backpack.

“Are you leaving?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you going?”

“Somewhere?”

“Why?”

“I got something I need to do.”

“You coming back?” Ben grabs Dean’s crotch, as if he’d be content to have him leave his package as collateral, or just for kicks. 

“Maybe,” Dean says, because the truth is, he doesn’t know.

It depends on how this goes down. If it’s as easy as he suspects, then yeah, sure, no problem. He’ll off Sam “Wesson”, off Grabby Himmel and then he’ll come settle down in the backwater with Lisa and… deal with Benjamin.

Ben, who doesn’t even know to celebrate his stay of execution. He’s too busy clinging to Dean’s waist.

“Relax.” Dean peels him off. “What did we talk about, huh? You got to cool it.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No.”

“Can I come?”

“No.”

“Dean.”

If there’s one thing Dean can’t abide, it’s whining. He reaches into the top of his bag and draws out a gun.  
He presses the barrel between Ben’s brow, both of them breathing like marathon runners. He could do it now. End Lisa, too. Cleaner than leaving them to squeal to whoever comes looking for him.

“Open your mouth.”

Ben lets the gun click against his teeth and rest on his tongue. Dean’s cock twitches, as if it could get up to anything again so soon. 

“You keep quiet while I’m gone. You hear?”

Ben nods.

“Any other weird characters come around, you text, let me know. Got it? If you have to, you use this.”

Dean places the pistol in Ben’s hands, grabs his chin and gives the boy his tongue to suck on for a moment. 

The luckiest little boy in America. For the moment, Ben Braeden’s got a reprieve, because Dean’s got to go kill his little brother.


	64. Chapter 64

As he races along Route 80 West, Dean listens to whatever station blasts the strongest signal: lot of country music. Little bit of rap. Some classic rock. None of it’s for him, although, every now and then, they’ll play a song his dad used to sing. 

Whenever that happens, Dean gets still as a possom, breathing shallow, hearing his father’s voice instead of Seeger’s or Paul Rodgers, from bad Company. Three minutes and it’s be over. The chill passes, like it never happened. 

John Winchester is dead as a box of doornails. 

Dean Johnson had been perfectly - well, reasonably content - to let Sam Winchester rest, too. To let Sam Wesson live his life. 

The asshole made a serious mistake coming after him. And why? The only plausible explanation is that somebody’s gotten to him.

Dean knew they’d come eventually. He could have stayed in Virginia and kept knocking down these fuckers one by one. Or he can enter at the wound, swim up the vein, and stop the heart. He’ll put down Sam, Grabby, and any other fucker who gets in his way. Dean will do whatever it takes to protect his good, happy life.

7 AM, the following day, outside of Marion, OH, he gets a message. 

LISA - Are you coming back?

It had been 2 years since the last time he’s split without a word, but she’s used to him up-and-leaving. Her reaction is the only reason he kept coming back. There isn’t another woman in the world who’s gotten Dean’s repeat performance. 

Ben, on the other hand, lacks his mother’s finesse, patience and self-control. He’s been texting every hour on the hour.

BEN - Drive safe  
BEN - Come home soon  
BEN - Missed the bus again. LoL  
BEN - (crazy face emoji)  
BEN - Where are you right now?

The texts keep coming until Dean silences his phone. 

***

It’s a three days’ drive from Aldie to San Francisco, catching naps in the backseat, only when he needs them. Always mindful of the cameras, rocking a baseball cap every time he stops for gas or fast food. 

He’d left his truck under a tarp at Ash’s aunt’s in West Virginia and hot-wired a Jeep Cherokee in Wheeling. Good solid road car once he swapped out the plates. 

Dean doesn’t usually pick up hikers, but sees himself at a Qwik-E-Martoutside of Kansas City: barely 13, freshly runaway from that last foster home. Just before that trucker asshole found, fucked and beat him silly, laughing all the while. 

“Stay down, stupid little fuck.”

Every time Dean tried again to stand, the guy would kick him in the ribs.

Finally, the stupid little fucker couldn’t stand again, so he’d laid on the ground waiting for one more kick and spit on his face for good measure. 

By a stroke of dumb Fate, Jordy found Dean staggering around in the dark. Bleeding from both eyes, ear, mouth and asshole. The next morning, he’d delivered the boy to Grabby Himmel like a bruised and swollen, fruit basket.

“What the hell did you do to him?” Grabby asked, dressed in a silk robe with his feet in a bowl of goldfish. 

Dean peered around him through his one open eye. He’d never seen a house so big, with statues in it and a fountain out front. He knew enough to stay quite.

“I didn’t do anything,” Jordy said. “Found him like this. But I mean, can’t you tell he’s got to be pretty under there.” 

He covered the busted side of Dean’s face with his hand and turned him to give a better impression.

Grabby curled his nose. “If he heals right, maybe.”

“Well, he’s young, right?”

“I don’t trade in boys, Jordan. You know that.”

“Yeah, but, maybe you should.”

“Take that mess out of my face.”

“Grabby… Look, wait,” Jordy said, showing both palms in a last-ditch effort to sell this prize. “Remember that judge, or whatever it was, came around here looking for… well, he was looking for this, wasn’t he? And you had to say no. Well, now, you can say yes. You got to look at the future. Everybody and their cousin’s got girls, and coke, and guns. It might be time to expand, man.”

Dean parks his stolen Jeep, hops out and stretches to the sky. His spine pops as he twists left and right. 

The kid he offers a ride is a pair of sturdy legs in skin-tight jeans. Up close, though, he’s got the advantage of acne and crooked, nicotine-stained teeth. The boy is closer to 16, and nowhere near as marketable as Dean has been at that age. Neither of them says more than where they’re headed.


	65. Chapter 65

Dean pulls of4 Route 166 into Santa Maria. He parks a mile from the address in the dead guy’s phone. He bends back like a bow until that vertabrate pops back into place. Long fucking drive.

“Fuck.”

He shakes it off. Little pain never hurt anybody.

Bigger, fresher fish await. This place is nuts. One of these massive, modern places that must easily go for twenty mil. Acres of grass and garden out front. Who knows how much land he’s got out behind it. The only thing it doesn’t have is windows. None that Dean can see. It as might as well be made from giant steel LEGOs.

Dean strolls casually past the 10 foot, wrought-iron gate and double checks the house number. Mutters to himself, “Jesus Christ, Sam. What are you selling?”

Dean ain’t exactly destitute. He lives real comfortably, and he has a few hundred grand in cash stowed away, in various locations, like a pirate, for a stormy afternoon.

But this is next level money. This is crazy money. 

“Holy shit,” he says out loud. 

He snaps a few shots on his phone. It’s not a house, so much as an estate. 

A guy with this kind of money is going to have security. People are going to notice when he’s gone. Dean could break in now, do the deed and take his chances, but it will be wiser to survey the situation first. 

Minor setback, but no one’s untouchable. It’ll just take a couple of days to do it right. During that time, Dean could sleep in his car but his damn spine will not thank him for it. 

He’s got hotel money, but even with a false ID there’s always the risk of cameras, or the rare receptionist with a good memory.

His best bet is to hit a bar.

 

***

It’s a typical dive. Same as you’ll find anywhere. Poor lighting. Watery beer. Dull darts, duller company wasting money and time. The music is right, though. Stones blaring from a jukebox as Dean enters and lets his shoulders fall. 

While it’s best to have three candidates, it’s imperative to choose one and stay true. Dean zeroes in on his mark: a once-beautiful, naturally-blonde, 40-something mother anybody right-minded would gladly fuck. 

She the kind of woman who’ll expect Dean to chat up a college girls. She’d shake her head, but wouldn’t be bitter about it. Her prettiness is approaching its expiration date around the same time of life that Dean’s prettiness is mellowing into “distinguished good looks.” Crows feet can work for a man, especially one who’s paying with a fifty-dollar bill. Ladies, not so much. 

Dean sits ostentatiously alone, eyeing his prey. He smiles small like a shy man and nods when she inquires with a raised brow whether he’s ready. 

“Jack and coke, please.” 

Cordiality is simple bait that she ain’t biting. 

When his drink arrives, Dean says thanks and catches her wrist. His grip is gentle, but a necessary risk. She flinches but before she can snatch away, she gets her first look at his face.

Lonely men come and go in these places. Most of them remain nameless and faceless as ghosts. Dean is not most men. He knows his affect on women. On a lot of men, for that matter. Even ones who think they’re straight. It’s not just a matter of symmetrical features. There’s some silent magic in the sum of the parts that make him like an anglerfish in midnight dark waters.

A gifted predator, Dean casts his features into a bashful, lopsided smile. Speaks softly so she leans closer to hear. 

“Sorry. You were going to walk away,” he says. “And I didn’t know your name.”

Dean has no idea why he assumes this woman responds to wounded men. He doesn’t question his instincts anymore. With a success rate like his you learn to trust yourself.

“What do you want?” She asks sounding harder than her eyes appear.

Dean clears his voice. “What’s your name?”

“You don’t need to know my name, honey.”

“I might.”

Another smile, this one a tad naughty, though still cautious.

“Oh, tell him your name, Layla,” another waitress says bumping her hip as she passes. “Derrick wasn’t half as good looking and probabaly three times as dumb.”

Layla rolls her eyes. “Tell me if you need anything else.”

She wanders off and tend her other tables. Dean bides his time watching. He couldn’t have orchestrated it better when a girl slides into the bar across from him. Round, pretty face. Long cornsilk curls. Eighteen years younger, bouncing with energy, huge tits, flashing pearly teeth. The kind of girl he’d screw in the can if he was trying to piss off the locals. Not his goal tonight.

“Hi.”

“Hello.” Dean studies his drink, cranking up the reserved routine. 

“I’m Claire.”

“How you doing, Miss Claire?” He searches the room for Layla.

“Where’s that accent from?”

“Everywhere. Just like me.”

“That right?”

This girl is about as subtle as a neon marquee. What man would choose Layla when they could have Claire? Dean understands. He was eighteen and irresistible once. But he’s lived long enough to know humility’s a virtue and that this girl still lives at home with her parents. She works retail at the mall on weekends and spends most of her time on social media.

Layla glances over her shoulder at them. Then she goes right back to what she’s doing. Now, Dean knows his play.

“How about you Miss Claire,” he asks. “Where you from?”

“Oh, I grew up right here in Santa Maria County.”

“Well, look at that.”

Dean grins and amplifies his interest by a thousand fold. Telling jokes and chuckling at her random, irrelevant comments. He finishes his drink but doesn’t gesture for another. Feigns loss in conversation with the cute, but vapid girl.

Layla swishes by, takes his glass and ignores her young competition when she asks Dean, “You want another?”

Claire’s face is in her phone and Dean begs, with wide eyes for a rescue. Layla’s head tilts, confused at first. He mouths the word, ‘please’ and rolls his eyes like he’s never been so bored in his life.

She chuckles and says, “Hey, Claire. Danny’s calling you.”

“Danny can go fuck himself,” Claire responds without looking up.

“Claire.” Layla kicks her foot. 

The girl looks up and between them. “I didn’t think you... Whatever. Fine.”

She waves and sulks away.

Dean thanks his savior and smiles

“No problem.”

“Hey nineteen," he says. “Steely Dan, you know?”

She nods. “Good song.”

“Yeah.”

Again, he catches her arm as she walks away. Applies the faintest pressure to her pressure point. Strokes his thumb across the soft, warm skin on her wrist. She hovers, looking at his hand for a moment before he lets her go. 

A few minutes later, Dean pays for his drink, steps out front and lights a cigarette. Layla rushes through the door behind him, flustered and waving a pair of twenties.

“Your change!”

He shakes his head. She narrows her eyes, wise not to trust a 40 dollar tip from a stranger. But now she’s chased him and unless she’s a manhating lesbian, this case is closed.

“You remind me of... Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Can I... When’s your shift over?”

“Listen, I’m not…” She was going to say, ‘interested’ and swallows the lie. “Available.”

“I’m not asking for much. Just go around the corner grab some pie. Somebody to talk to and... The whole left swipe culture isn’t for me.” 

Dean finds himself turning on a slight twang again. He’ll say Tennessee when she asks. Hovered around Knox and Nash villes long enough to carry the story.

She chuckles at his Tinder humor and nods. 

“Thirty minutes? Twenty.” He grins. “It’s pie. How can you say no to pie? I’ll bring it here and we’ll eat it on the sidewalk. Just tell me what time.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You’re beautiful, and I’m…” He looks at his boots. Counts to three. “I’d just like someone to talk to.”

***

He’s there, ten minutes before 1 AM with five slices and two plastic forks. Layla blinks rapidly and pins her hair behind her ear.

“Don’t worry. It’ll get eaten.”

They sit side by side on a bench, one block from her bar. Dean spins one of his favorites: he’s a traveling insurance adjuster. Divorced. One son. Benjamin. (Whose messages have become so frequent that Dean has blocked the number).

He swallows the rest of the tale with a swig from his carton of milk. Layla laughs and declines his offer to share. She favors key lime. Once he’s won her dubious admiration by polishing off the rest of the others, Dean takes her hand and studies the life line in the center of her palm. 

“Picses,” he says.

“You know, I’m a preacher’s daughter. Don’t know the first thing about all that witchcraft.”

“Hm.” It’s just an excuse to touch her. “I can see right here that you were raised by a righteous man.”

“It was my mother actually. My father was a trucker.”

“Exactly. It says that over here.”

“Amazing.” She shakes her head and laughs. 

“You still are a little bit of a believer,” Dean guesses, watching her eyes.

Layla nods. “A little.”

“Because every now and again something good happens to you,” he says. “Like God will send a man who’s rugged and vulnerable and amazing in bed.”

She looks away, smiling. Dean kisses her palm. 

“God doesn’t send those,” Layla says. “They come straight from the devil.”

“That’s your mother talking.”

She laughs. “You’re not wrong.”

Ten minutes later, they’re in the back of her Ford Focus fulfilling on all his promise. Dean doesn’t even take down his pants. Doesn’t need to. That is not the point of this venture. She’s probably wondering about it. Wondering if he’s one of those small dick guys who’s all magical mouths and fingers. 

Doesn’t much matter what she thinks about his dick right now. What’s important are her three consecutive orgasms and the fact that she’s having a hard time catching her breath. He kisses her neck, the crest of her breast, her shoulder, her mouth.

“I don’t want to let you go just yet.”

She murmurs.

“Do you feel like coming back to my hotel?”

It’s a big bold bluff, but time to seal this deal or make a new plan. 

“I can’t. I …”

“I understand…” he says. “What if I follow you home like a stray?”

Layla’s laugh is a low, throaty affair. She slowly sits up, buttoning her shirt. “I really can’t, Dean.”

“You know, the least you could do is offer me a cup of coffee so it doesn’t seem like you were just going me for my body. Then I’ll drag my ass back to Howard Johnson. Scouts honor.”

She tugs her hair into tight, high ponytail. “Were you a scout?”

“Never.”

Layla laughs again.

“But I’m honest,” Dean says.

She gazes out of the window at the cloudy night and the slick, black pavement, sighs and says, “One cup.” 

 

***

Dean wakes on a Sealy posturpedic mattress, the way God intended. Furthermore, he isn’t stirred by an alarm clock, but by the sweet siren’s call of a pubescent voice squeaking, “Mom?”

Of course, he knew, without knowing how, a bit about Layla’s homelife. Perhaps it’s the ever-fresh desperation that flows from single mom raising sons. Dean senses it like some folks can predict rain. There’s some cloudy pall over their faces, invisible but detectable if one listens between the lines on their brows. 

Dean doesn’t question his instincts. He follows them blindly and they rarely lead him astray. He can always spot them. And he can, almost always, win their trust. 

But this boy? Oh, he’s a jackpot. He’s a goldrush when you were digging for water. 

With the sheet still covering her breasts, the mother leans over to pluck a camisole from the floor. She begins to dress while frantically directing her child to wait in the hall, as if he and Dean hadn’t already seen each other. Even now, they were both staring in each others’ eyes, gauging their fortune.

By appearances, Dean had expected Layla’s boy to be a strong, sturdy ray of sunshine. He’s not. This child is a snowflake. Pale and delicate with silver hair. Too soft to touch. Almost.

If he’s not a future fairy, Mother Nature is playing one of her cruel tricks.

Ben Braeden is built for rugby, for wrestling. Layla’s kid is made for rug burns. Dean smiles at his inside joke that will never see daylight.

“Robin!”

The boy starts and backs into the hall, closing the door. Layla runs her hands through her mussed hair.

“I don’t do this,” she says.

“I know.”

“I intentionally don’t do this to him.”

“I know.” Dean sits up and searches the floor for his shirt. “You said so last night.”

“Did I?”

He smiles, places a hand on her back. “You were tipsy. Talked about him a lot.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Hey, look.” Dean rubs her arm. “The little guy is waiting. Why don’t you... I’ll get dressed. If you want I’ll sneak away. Or, I make a mean western omelet.”

“He’s seven. He’s not going to eat that.”

“It’s a kid-friendly omelet.”

“He doesn’t understand.”

“Children understand a lot more than you’d think, Layla,” Dean says and stops himself there.

The things he knew at seven would shatter any mother’s delusions of hope.

“Right. You have a son, too.” She finally, nods. “That would be great, if you could.”

As promised, Dean dresses and mosies down the hall to the apartment’s tiny, but well-stocked kitchen.

Robin stands at the doorless doorframe, watching. He looks like a human child fashioned from starlight. All of him fair except for the pink pouting lips. His dark blue dinosaur t-shirt makes his skin appear even paler. Untouched porcelain. His arms are folded as he glares at Dean’s back, still silently calculating risk. 

For a while, Dean focuses on these eggs, lets the boy complete his assessment. Pretends not to know he’s there. When he’s sure the boy won’t scurry, he asks, without turning around, “How old are you?”

Dean knows the answer, which is a good thing, because Robin doesn’t reply.

Layla’s shower is loud enough through the thin walls to keep tabs on where she is. Dean sets a plate of eggs on the table and squirts a ketchup happy face on top.

“What’s your name?” 

Perfect silence. A freshly fallen angel. A gift. Dean could kiss him now, but he knows how to take his time with such treasures.

The three of them eat in relative silence. Layla’s hair falling on her shoulders, dampening her shirt as she mentions Dean’s kid. And says that he’s from the east coast. There’s no reason a seven year old should care and Robin doesn’t appear to. 

He isn’t much softened by the quarter Dean mysteriously draws from his ear and drops into his palm. Robin quietly eats most of his breakfast and remains at the door frame watching Dean wash the dishes.

First, Dean hums the theme song to Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, a personal favorite. Then, he knocks his hips side to side while he croons another classic. 

“He rocks in the treetop all day long.  
Hoppin and a boppin and singing that song.”

The kid’s scowl becomes confusion.

“Come on,” Dean says. “You know that one.

All the little birdies on GayBird St  
Love to hear the Robin go tweet tweet tweet.”

Robin doesn’t dance or sing, but he isn’t frowning anymore. 

“Good song you got there.”

“My daddy named me that before he died.”

That sweet, little voice is like a tinkling bell. Dean will have to wait and work for what he wants. It’ll be so worth it. 

“Your daddy sounds like a smart man,” he says.

Layla lied to one of them. She gave Dean the same sob song he got from Lisa and dozens of other women. Oh, he’d met a widow here and there. And one career woman who’d knocked herself up with IVF. But most of them complained of a man who was interested in the act of coupling but not in its result. 

Whatever the case is, Robin’s daddy is missing out.  
Skin like cream. Bird bones in those twig arms. He might bulk up one day, but he’s more likely to stay a featherweight. Dean can’t see a boy like this without wondering what he’d cost on the block. Hourly or for outright sale.

He grins, dries his hand on a dish towel and kneels. “So, you take care of your mom all by yourself then?”

The kid doesn’t respond.

“Where you working these days?”

Nothing.

Dean slides his hands down both arms. He can’t resist that cautious affection. The boy is so frail. The skin on Robin's wrists is so smooth. 

“It’s okay, buddy. I’m not going to hurt her. Or you,” he says. “I’m going to hang around a few days, as long as it’s okay with your mom. Maybe I can be a good friend to you both for a little while and then I’ll leave you alone. That sound fair?”

The boy works his jaw and then nods.

“Yeah.”

Dean offers to shake. His hand swallows up the soft, little paw. Robin’s fragility tugs at his heart and his crotch. 

Not the time. 

“Good deal, bud.” He stands. “Now, where do I put these plates?”


	66. Chapter 66

Dean buys overalls at the thrift store. The trash picker tool he finds at a hardware store. Under the noonday sun, he hits the street with a black, plastic bag pretending to pick up trash whil he studies the perimeter.

Sam’s landscapers are sprucing up the French garden weekly: a distinction Dean retained from his long-gone days with the senator. The idea of getting in with them quickly deflates. Dean won’t be here that long and he couldn’t blend with a bunch of Hondurans anyway.

Every time a car rounds the corner, he drops the binoculars inside his suit. He also clears away some trash. You’re welcome, Santa Monica.

By his estimate there are twenty rooms in this house, but it’s too far from the road to be accurate. Dean does, however, find a few potential access points.

If he remains at this task at this point for more than an hour, he’ll become conspicuous, so Dean spends the rest of the day at the library studying the property online. It’s owned by a company called Halotech, Inc, but the company has no website.

There’s nothing on them at all, as if the web has been scrubbed. Ash could probably find something, but it doesn’t matter who’s in that house. Dean is going to end them. They interfere with his good, happy life, they’ve got to go.

Halotech doesn’t sound like a company name Grabby would hide behind. The last time Dean saw that asshole was in Chicago, but anything is possible. Maybe he’ll be putting a bullet in the man himself. That would make Dean’s day.

***

On the internet, he locates and studies blueprints of other similar mansions designed by the same architect. Every hour or so, he drives past the estate, alternating east and west. He checks in with Ash by email and intentionally leaves his phone off. Doesn’t even want to know how many messages Ben has left.

At 9PM, the library closes. He swings by the bar close to Layla’s quitting time at 1.

She tries to hide her gleeful surprise when he steps into the bar, but those wide blue eyes are a dead give away. He smiles and gives a two-finger salute. Clearly, she thought he would hit it and split.

He drinks one beer until she clocks out. Then, Dean walks her across the dark parking lot, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and says, “I hope you don’t mind me coming back around.”

Layla stops, hops onto her tip toes and kisses him full on the mouth.

***

Dean’s an early riser. The fridge is nearly bare, so he hops out for milk and eggs. When he returns with the newspaper tucked under his arm, the woman and the kid look up at him with such gratitude, like he’s a saint just for returning.

Lisa always made him welcome, but never gave the impression she needed him. Here, he’s a savior. Could get used to that.

Layla cooks crepes while Dean lays on the living room floor, looking over the funnies with Robin. She stands at the door to the kitchen with a spatula in her folded arms, half-smile displaying bewilderment and terror. Dean can read her face even better than the comics. She thinks it unsafe for her son to get attached. People don’t give kids any credit.

Robin knows Dean is a wild card.

The next day, he brings the woman a wild flower he picked from the side of the road. For the boy, he has a candy bar. You’d think it was fucking Hannukah. Delight never came easier.

It’s so much fun watching their damn faces light up that after casing Sam’s the next day, he takes them to the movies. Dean sits between them with a wing around each shoulder. The three of them go for a stroll in the park. They let the whippersnapper scamper ahead while Dean keeps an arm around Mom’s waist.

That night, he reads Robin a bedtime story, stroking his skinny little arm, dick stirring in his pants while Sam I Am learns an important lesson about trying new things. Dean lips brush over cornsilk hair. He murmurs, “That okay?”

Robin nods. He’s barely breathing. Sipping just enough air to keep from passing out.

“You like it?”

He gasps in the affirmative.

Fuck yeah, he likes having his bony ribs pawed and his little nips thumbed under Pooh Bear’s watchful gaze. Who wouldn’t like it?  
Maybe Eeyore, that moody fuck.  
But all of Robin’s stuffed creatures, and his posters, and the solar system mobile on the ceiling welcome Dean into this little universe where this boy’s damp, tense body is the only sun.

His mom is in the shower, getting ready to take the stiff dick her son has inspired.

“Me, too, Robin,” Dean murmurs against his face. “I like you a lot.”

That little patch of skin on his feathersoft forearm must be rubbed oversensitive by now, but he doesn’t complain. This kid hasn’t been touched by a man in his life, maybe ever. Except maybe a pat on the head or the rump by a deacon. Dean has grilled him: No uncles. No granddad. It’s a damn shame, but Dean’s going to take good care of him. You can be sure of that.

With the exception of Ben, Dean only ever touches lovingly.  In doing so, he proves to himself over and over again that he’s not like his dad.

No one would understand, but it’s good for the kids. Better a nice, well-meaning guy like Dean than one of those sickos who wants to break their pelvis and bury their shattered bones in his basement. 

Dean just wants them to feel good. He wants to be there and watch them revel in the magic he draws out of their bodies. To teach them the good trembling-whimpering love he’s known all his life. People fear sex, but sex is not scary. It’s not bad. It’s a good thing. 

Or at least, it’s supposed to be.

Why is it different with Ben? 

Because Ben asks for it, literally. When Dean wanted to stop, Ben wouldn’t let it be over. So, Dean shoves him around some, trying to get him to back off. Calls him names. Doesn’t matter. Ben crawls back, begs. Waves that plump little ass around like a red flag. And Dean fucking charges him, hard, hot and heavy. A fucking animal. 

That’s why he hates that kid as much as he loves him. Ben reveals to Dean all the tar-black evil his Daddy left in him. 

Sam’s estate could be a stickier matter. If Dean penetrates the fortress as a delivery guy, he’s stuck with that persona. The only car he’s seen come or go is a red Honda driven by a mousy brunette. It’s registered to an Amelia Fox whose license picture could be the same chick. Hard to be sure.

Each day, Dean becomes more convinced that he’s going to have to take this place the old fashioned way. Stage a B&E, make it look like a botched robbery. He’ll torture whoever the fuck he finds until they squeal about the hit. Why did Sam send someone to kill him? When Dean finds out, he’ll erase them all. A few more days, and he’ll make the move.

***

Every night he offers to go back to a hotel room he doesn’t have.

“Only if you want to,” Layla says. “Anyone who cooks as well as you is welcome to stay as long as you want.”

“The cooking, is it?” Dean wraps his arms around her, kisses her cheek.

She shrugs and the smile drops ten years from her face.

Each morning, he awakens to a woman gazing like he’s a meteor or something winged that nosedived from the sky. On the fifth evening, Dean is cutting his steak when he asks whether Robin has homework. Those two exchange looks.

He freezes. “What? Oh. Sorry. I forgot myself. Not my place.”

“It’s okay,” Layla says with a gentle hand on his wrist.

Dean knows damn well what he’s doing. He’s using science to provide a service. If he could clone himself and travel the world playing Daddy to the sad, little boys abandoned by some jackass deadbeat, that’s what he’d do. But you can only love one at a time. If he meets a broad with two boys, he’ll take them both, but only begotten sons are best.

LIttle girls don’t usually ring Dean’s bell. But a sweet, pale, androgynous cherub like Robin makes Dean want to cry at the dinner table. He could throw down his knife and fork, fall down at the boy’s knees and lick his hairless balls.

Dean smiles for mother and son.

Why even go back to Ben and Lisa? He’s got access to enough cash to start over. Clean. Fresh as Robin’s face.


	67. Chapter 67

But Dean is out west for one reason and it’s not to get laid. He’s here to secure his freedom. Once he’s done the deed, Dean will squat in town for a few more days, so his departure can’t be linked to the murder. Sam clearly has money, which usually means clout, which often translates to headlines. 

SAM WESSON FOUND DEAD IN HIS SANTA MONICA ESTATE

Dean is used to seeing his handiwork in the paper, but without any credit to him, the man who’d made the news - Exactly as it should be.  
The day journalist’s list any of his aliases it’ll be right next to the date of his federally-funded execution. All the lawmakers and bigwigs he’s iced, they’d fry Dean up extra crispy.

Enough light musing. Today’s the day.  
At 3 AM, he gets out of Layla’s bed. She stirs. Dean kisses her cheek. She smiles softly without opening her eyes. The world is full of decent women. Not once has he encountered a good man. Certainly not in the mirror.

Dean peeks in on Robin. The boy is asleep with the sheets hanging off one leg. Dean drops a kiss on his damp forehead and whispers, “Behave.”

He leaves a few hundred dollar bills under the coffee can. Layla might think he’s made her into a whore, but then she’ll use the cash for groceries. Hopefully, buy the kid an ice cream cone.

Enough soft shit. 

A particular itch precedes a well-planned kill. That anxiety is dancing wild as lightning beneath Dean’s skin. Dressed in midnight black he approaches Sam’s stronghold. Southern California is no place for a ski mask, but it’s a must, as well as the low-powered headlamp. Dean couldn’t locate them, but this place must have security cams til kingdom come. 

He cuts the power to the box at the main gate. Waits. Sometimes, that alerts the cops.  
Five, ten, twenty minutes, siren - free.

He ducks and runs along the hedges, staying out of the floodlights. From a distance, he’d appear as a shifting shadow. A play of the light. Surely, nobody expects a trained assasin skulking up their horseshoe driveway on a Tuesday night. 

Note to self: this is a classic anonymous hit. Terminate target. Pilfer a few hot-ticket items: silver, small electronics. 

Next, Dean disables power to the house and listens for the deep electric hum deadening to silence. Five seconds later, a generator zooms to life. Dean should have calculated that in. Chances are that the minimum wage technicians who installed the security system failed to connect it to the backup power, but it’s a make or break gamble. 

If the alarm trips, Dean will like Hell and try again in a week. Heart thumping, he fists his gloved hand, breaks the glass to the kitchen door.  
Waits.

Twenty minutes of crickets and distant traffic. No sirens. Nothing stirring inside the house.

It’s been a few years since he’s done this, but so far, it’s running as smoothly as a hit can go.  
No dog. No surprises. 

Cocky makes sloppy, but Dean is relaxing a bit.  
Find the guy. Deep-tissue torture to get any information. There are only two answers Dean needs: is Sam connected with Grabby Himmel. And if not, why did Sam call in the hit on Dean.  
Debrief, dispatch and dip. Cakewalk. 

The truth is, Dean doesn’t need to hear Sam say why. He knows why and he doesn’t even blame the man. Does Dean deserve to die? Most assuredly. It’s the god damn principle. 

Lisa would lose her shit over Sam’s kitchen. Looks like something from the Kardashians. All white and steel. Even in the dark, the size, order, beauty of the space is striking. In a way, Dean grew up in huge houses: Grabby’s. The Senator’s. It’s still amazing how the 1% lives.

Men with the money to buy planes and boys, whatever kind of toys they choose for leisure and then discard. It wouldn’t be a surprise if Sam’s got a string of play things.

Sam’s got three different kinds of coffee machines. Two blenders. Dean opens the massive fridge, just ‘cause. It’s as orderly as a grocer’s freezer. Lot of fresh shit. Vegetables. Fruit. Everything in glass Pyrex. He’s definitely in the right place.

The rest of the house is stark in its emptiness. Steel walls. Bone white decor. No windows. No art. Every rich guy Dean ever worked was crazy about art. As if owning statues makes you cultured, mother fucker?  
Dean had even sat for a portrait once. Somewhere in the world, there’s an oil painting of a naked, 15 year old Dean Winchester, although he was already going by the last name Johnson by then.

The one problem with Sam’s barren tastes, there isn’t much to burgle. No knickknacks laying around. Just as well. Dean will trash the place and make it look like the idiot who broke in was searching for goods. 

Out of curiosity, Dean peeks into Sam’s wetbar. Nothing but bottles of Japanese springwater. Somebody’s idea of eternal torture.

“Focus.”

As closely as he’d studied the blueprints, each was a bit unique. He gets turned around in the giant maze of corridors. Should have brought breadcrumbs. 

Finally, he finds a room with light under the double doors. Folds the hat up onto his head. Not a problem if the guy sees him. There won’t be any witnesses.  
All the other rooms are empty. Dean has a few extra sense about these things. No kids. If there’s a wife, she dies, too.

A wife. Mrs. Sam Wesson?  
Could Sam be married?  
Of course he could. Probably is. He must be…  
Dean minus 4.  
37 years old by now.  
Jesus. Time.

“Focus.”

Dean turns the knob, eases into the anteroom. Hand on his weapon: Glock 17 TB silencer already attached. His pulse kicks up a few notches. This work kicks the adrenaline into overdrive. Every time. 

The air is heavy with lavender essential oil and a quiet mechanical hum. Same steel walls. No windows. 

A soundless step into the main sleep chamber. The canopy’d double king is shoved into a corner. In the center of the otherwise vacant room stands a hospital bed, an IV tower, an echocardiograph and an oxygen tank. 

In the bed lies Dean’s baby brother.


	68. Chapter 68

The last time Dean saw this face was half his life ago. He was 22 to Sam’s 18 and there wasn’t even a shadow of a beard on the kid’s baby-smooth face. Dean had chuckled to himself that his little brother might not yet have been able to grow a moustache. But those Wesson had damn sure fed him. You don’t get to Sam’s size on an oatmeal diet.

Over a damn decade had already passed between them. To avoid prison time, Dean had respected the restraining order Sam’s “parents” placed on him, but his little brother was legally a man now. There was nothing anyone could do to keep them apart. Then again, Dean had always been an idiot.

He’d shown up on Stanford’s campus all cocky and leather-jacket clad, expecting what? Thinking his little brother would ditch his  
scholarship and gun it to nowhere with Dean? Or flash those dimples, yank Dean into a bear hug, invite him into the dorm room, let him take a look at what college life was like?

Dean had, at least, expected his little brother to recognize him.

“Can I help you?”

It was so impossible that Dean had, at first, taken it for a joke. He laughed, but the comedy soured rin his throat.

Dean had seen the article in the Toledo Times. Local boy makes good with a full ride to Palo Alto. There was even a picture of Sam looking lost - half his mouth raised in a sad imitation of a smile. Cap and gown. Towering over Ma and Pa who’d learned how to smile real good for the cameras.  
Had to be proud of a boy like that.

They’d had their arms right around his waist. All Dean had was a folded newspaper photo of Sneering Sam in graduation gear in his wallet. Then, one drink and drug-fueled night, Dean was mugged by the guy who’d just plugged him. Lost the photo with the wallet and took it as a sign of the time to go get his brother.

And then Sam didn’t remember his sorry ass anyway. Half leaning out of the dorm door. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, no. I…”

Oddly, Sam’s scowl revealed one of his dimples. As he started to close the door, Dean lunged and held it open with an elbow.

He hadn’t planned to. Also hadn’t expected Sam’s hair to flow over broad shoulders. Hadn’t expected the waif-thin waist. Long legs. Bare feet. Or for Sam’s Ms. Pac-Man T-shirt to be too small and his jeans to sag low enough for a delectable peek of pale flesh over razor-sharp hip bone.

Dean hadn’t expected his little brother to be an inch taller than he was.  
He’d reckoned with some warmth - a swell of Tenderness he hadn’t felt in years.  
Hadn’t anticipated the rush of heat in his twitching dick.

Monster.

That’s when he stepped back.  
No, body. Brother. Not beef.  
Was he too messed up to appreciate beauty without wanting to screw it?

Sam was still scowling when he closed the door. Dean stood there for ten minutes conjuring excuses to knock again.  
New on campus. Looking for some building or professor.  
Where’s the bathroom?

But then what?

He could spread his arms and say, “I’m your long lost, apparently forgotten, no account, criminal brother.”

Or knock him into his bed and let a solid face-fucking jog his memory.

Dean placed a palm on the door, silently wished his brother luck and walked away.  
Hardest and best thing he ever did.

Before that, Dean had thought love for his brother would save him from his past. No such hope. If there’s ever any saving, Dean has to do it himself.

That’s why he’s here now. To settle this score.  
Dean’s weapon is behind his back, but cocked and ready to perform. The only problem: it’s not 37 year old Sam in the bed. Or even his contemptuous brother at 18 years old. This Sam can’t be more than 7, and Dean is this close to crumbling to his knees and begging his forgiveness.


	69. Chapter 69

After that disappointing encounter at Sam's dorm, Dean started went back to imagining himself an orphaned only child. He described himself that way, too. Woman lap that shit up like maple syrup on a stiff dick.

It was easy to commit to that story, backstory considered.

This isn’t a brother killing mission. Wesson is a bastard stranger. It’s no different wasting him than it would be polishing any mark.

Dean doesn’t give a warm shit about Sam Wesson.

But when he looks again, he doesn’t see Wesson. That’s Sam’s adopted name. This little kid is still Winchester and Dean would rather die than hurt him.

Then why had he let his father make him do those things?

Dean scratches his head with the hand holding the gun. He winces and tries to shake his head clear of the weird image of baby Sam.

Lying prostrate. Hooked up to all this medical shit. Is he breathing through a machine?

“Jesus.”

When he says that name out loud, it’s as close to a prayer as Dean has ever come.

In reply, Sam coughs. Hacks a raw bark. And Dean frowns. Should he get ready to catch a lung?  
Sam's eyelids wrinkle as he squeezes them tight. He swallows a shaky breath before opening them.

Hazel. Horrified.

He’d never asked Dean to stop.  
He’d never been fucking conscious.  
Did that make it okay, you filthy fucking animal?

Dean ought to jam the barrel between his own teeth and blast the back out of his skull. It’s what he’d earned.

Sammy reaches, fingers clasping and stretching.  
Water. A glass on the table beside him. Dean tucks his gun into the holster and gives his brother to drink.

Sam holds the cup, but its contents dribble pitifully down his front - a white shirt, thin, probably cotton.

“Here,” Dean says. “Here.”

One hand supports Sam’s head while he slurps from the rim. He holds Dean’s arm with a surprisingly warm and firm grip. He doesn’t resist the help as Dean would.

In fact, Sam hangs that hand around Dean’s neck, lingering for a moment before he slumps onto his pillow.

What the actual fuck?

Dean is here for a hit.  
Sam wants him dead. Dean is issuing the favor first.

The lug doesn’t look like a kid anymore. Dean didn’t notice the transformation, but he’s got both eyes full of a massive, hairy fuck. This ain’t no kid. No reason not to do it. He wraps his fingers around the comforting handle of his weapon but doesn’t quite draw.

Sam mumbles. Dean hesitates. Surveys the door that delivered him into this weird nightmare. He could turn around, saunter through it, go home. Drive overnight three days to Lisa. Never look back. Pretend it never happened. Sam might even be dead by the time reaches the Virginia border.  
No reason to kill him. Nature is doing Dean’s job.

But he is a professional. He doesn’t leave a mission to chance or fate. He’s been doing this work longer than he ever lived with Sam (now Wesson.) There are 67 clean, untraceable kills under his belt.

One more. IThe situation warrants it. Kill Sam. Then, go kill Grabby. Once and for all, stop looking over his shoulders.

But all of Dean’s kills had been business. It doesn’t get any more personal than killing your brother. And since you can’t undo that shot, better be sure.

He leans to hear what Sam is mumbling, cautious, as if the guy might jump up and gnaw his ear off.

“Night nurse?”

“Night nurse?” Dean repeats with the same questioning inflection.

“Are you?”

“Yeah,” his mouth replies before his brain calculates.

Sure. Dean is the night nurse. Clad in cat burglar black, with a loaded pistol at his back. Sam must be feverish. Dean’s palm is on his forehead before it has permission to land.

Feels all right. (Like he’s some frigging expert). Baby Sam’s cute little face flickers against the real thing. Dean is losing it. The implications of this hit are fucking with the hardwiring in his medulla oblongata or something.

“Yeah, buddy,” he says. “I’m your night nurse. Why don’t you get some more sleep?”

Sam nods like his seven-year-old self, but his body is huge. He’s a grown-ass adult. One who snores, and wants Dean dead.


	70. Chapter 70

Dean Johnson has offed scores of men and women, but never a kid (Ben would have been the first). Never a guy in a wheelchair or one in a hospital bed. That level of savagery was never called upon.

Here and now, he decides it’s a principle.  
How can you kill a guy who has no chance of defending himself?  
You can’t, is how.  
Not if you want to look in the mirror the next day.

That had been a real problem after Dean’s first couple of hits, back when he was a tender, fresh-faced, leg-shaving seventeen-year-old. (You give the customer what he wants)

Hard to believe that pushover kid turned into the man he is today.

Regardless of how hard Dean thinks he is, he’s not going to pump a bullet into a guy who’s nearly a corpse anyway. It’s backwards logic, but that’s where his head is at. He’ll wait around until Sam croaks the natural way, or until he’s back on his feet - at which point, Dean will take him out.

Once Sam is gently snoring, Dean makes himself useful by ransacking every open drawer he can find - quiet as snow.

He finds only clothes in the dresser: twenty pairs of identical Saxx jersey shorts.  
Designer jeans folded with scientific precision. White t-shirts, black turtlenecks.

Sam’s walk-in closet is the size of the bedroom Dean shared with Lisa. There hang two silk suits: a black one and a grey with pinstripes. Tailored silk blends. Expensive shit. Sammy boy must strike some hell of a figure dressed like that.

He’s nobody’s Sammy anymore. He’s a man with an empire. Yet, the gazillionaire owns only three pairs of shoes. White Chucks, black Chucks and a pair of patent leather shoes that probably cost as much as Dean’s first car. (A puke-green Ford POS)

Sam’s office is adjacent to the bedroom. It’s massive and warmly decorated in wood and dark hues like a space Dumbledore could appreciate. Wall to wall books. Complete with a fireplace. It’s the only room in the house that doesn’t look like it was designed for robotic comfort.  
One book rests open on Sam’s desk - a big fat textbook in some language Dean can’t even identify.

The file cabinets are locked, but he finds a few papers for HaloTech Inc. in Sam’s desk. All the writing is in Japanese. (Dean guesses) Could be Chinese, or Klingon for that matter. It ain’t English.

Sam’s master bathroom is its own legacy of space and luxury. Dean suffers a brief bout of shower envy. The medicine cabinet void of prescriptions but full of vitamins and essential oils.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Sam?”

Maybe he needs a transplant and the hitman was sent to harvest the liver or spinal cord from Dean’s only living relative. He’s got the money.

It’s stupid. He knows it when he sits, but some damn dumb part of him wants to be here when Sam wakes up. Dean falls asleep in a miserable looking, but amazingly cozy steel chair in the corner of Sam’s room.

When he awakens, it’s with drool caked to his chin. No windows, therefore no clues about the time. He unfolds his arms and sits up straight. Watch reads 6, but that makes zero sense.

The mousy woman Dean has seen driving on and off the property is tucking a napkin into Sam’s shirt. He’s sitting up, too and about to dig into an odorless breakfast that makes Dean’s belly growl only by existing.

Sam smiles. A real stunner. Dimples and all.

“Ah,” he says. “My savior awakens.”

Savior. That’s an unearned first.

Mousy glances at him. Not plain, not pretty, and not impressed.

“I was in such a state I didn’t get your name,” Sam grins on.

“Dean. Johnson.”

Sam repeats the name with obvious reverence. “Dean Johnson. Amelia Fox, my assistant.”

She nods. Sam eats from a glass bowl with a silver spoon. Why would a man with his net worth eat orphanage gruel?  
Right now, though, Dean would take it.

He always works in an empty stomach and that fact is haunting him. His navel feels like it’s hitting his backbone.

“My vitals must have been pretty low,” Amelia says as Sam helps himself to a hearty bite.

“Hm?”

The machines only summon a night nurse when Mr Wesson’s vital signs reach a critical range.

“Of course,” Dean says. “I’m a little... Still waking up.”

He gestures to indicate that his brain is kicking into gear. Stands and carefully pats his back to be sure his weapon is in place. No way to hide it except keep his front fully visible.

“How is the patient this morning?”

Dean takes Amelia’s side and squeezes Sam’s left wrist, as if taking his pulse. The woman appears skeptical, but fuck her. He’ll snap her neck and say she tripped down the steps.

“Much better.” Sam smiles. “Thanks to you, I feel much better.”

Dean looks around for a stethoscope or some other equipment he could pretend to be using.

Sam hums, swallows and says, “My manners. Ms. Fox, would you bring Mr. Johnson some spelt.”

“Spelt?” Dean’s nose curls of its own accord.

“Mm. You seem to be admiring my breakfast.”

“Spelt.”

Dean’s never even heard the word. Even this close, the stuff gives off no odor. That doesn’t bode well for the flavor, but he’s on the verge of low blood sugar/adrenaline crash collapse, which would not be a good look.

“Sure. I’ll have some spelt,” he says. “Thank you.”

Ms Fox steps wordlessly from the room. Dean swallows the question about whether Sam hits that. Dean would, but not with much enthusiasm.

Dean soon learns that hunger is better than spelt. Maybe with some butter or sugar, it might be edible, but a bowl of boiled grains is not fine dining unless you’re a horse. But he stands beside Sam’s bed and scarfs down the grey mush. His body thanks him, and he thanks Sam and his assistant.

Only now, Dean notices the small round - something - behind Ms. Fox’s ear. From a distance, it might have looked like a mole. Up close… a hearing aid? The smallest he’s seen and slightly darker than flesh tone. A hearing aid? Bluetooth?

“My pleasure, Mr. Johnson.” It’s nerve-wracking the way Sam’s eyes sparkle when he smiles. “And thank you for the rescue last night. Ms. Fox is here to relieve you from your post.”

“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” Dean tenses.

This is the part where he shoots both of them. One neat hole in the center of their foreheads. Exits the scene and does not look back.

Only why? His motive is all screwed sideways. He needs to understand whether and why and who the fuck Sam is before he can just snuff the guy. This is not an ideal situation. If he leaves now, he’s got nothing. Breaking in again is a fool’s errand.

“I was wondering, Mr. Johnson,” Sam says handing Amelia his bowl. “May I call you Dean?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“Wonderful.” (Clap) “Dean. Would you consider coming this evening? A bit earlier. Perhaps 6. We’ll have supper and then you’ll attend me overnight. No need to wait for a crisis.”

“Um… Yeah. I can do that.”

“Fantastic.” Sam is shining now.

Dean never could say no to his brother's smile. But his brain is close to short-circuiting from the surreal ease with which he’s gone from hitman to night nurse.


	71. Chapter 71

The first order of business is to put something edible in his belly along with that boiled hay Sam fed him. Couple burgers.

Next, Dean calls Ash to confirm that things are running smoothly. There have been a couple of small fires - predictable problems that arise when they sell to a certain band of Nicaraguans. Nothing Ash couldn’t handle.

He pulls up Lisa’s name, but doesn’t send a message. Now, that he’s free again, he’s not sure about going back. Pros and cons to everything.

Graciously, Dean unblocks Ben, but that was a mistake. In under an hour, he receives a snapshot of a small dick in a small hand. Both, he knows well.

Dean types back: Quit it

That little nugget of advice doesn’t stop him from jerking off to it. Ben’s getting bigger, but still has a kid’s body. Ribs and belly got a little extra cushion for the pushing. Hot.

Busting a nut calms Dean a bit, too. He’d been agitated coming out of Sam’s, but now he leans his driver’s seat back, throws an arm over his eyes and falls asleep thinking about Sam.

Baby Sammy.  
Little Sam.  
College Sam.

This gigantic, strange adult Sam Wesson.

They all have the same crazy-beautiful eyes. Dramatically different bodies. What if Dean could get all four of Sam’s incarnations lined up on their knees, as if awaiting execution, staring up at him?  
He wants to not want that. Why can’t he just be a good normal guy who dreams of saying, ‘Surprise!’ Hugging his baby bro and kissing his hair and hearing what his life has been?

But that’s not what Dean is. He’s never been normal. As long as he can remember, he’s always wanted to fuck everything on two legs. Most of them want him back. It’s what he was made for. To fuck and be fucked. Most of the time, that’s fine.  
Just not with his little brother.  
That was never fine. It was always wrong.

Even a murderer has to have some scruples. And technically, Dean was never a murderer. He never killed people for kicks. It was a job. Does anyone blame a butcher or a hunter? Running hits is no different.

Around mid-day, he wakes from his nap and texts Layla. She responds that she’s picked up a shift at CVS and won’t be home before 8. In desperate need of distraction, Dean drives over and cruises her street. As only sheer good fortune would have it, little Robin is walking with a 13-year-old girl who is more interested in the screen of her phone than the boy. Robin trails two, five, twenty feet behind her, collecting stones.

If Dean were evil, he could snatch the boy and no one would ever know.  
He does, however, imagine making some wicked sparks fly between those Robin and his babysitter. Ice cream, money: it’s hard to tell what motivates kids these days.

The girl leads Robin up the front steps to their apartment building and holds the door open for him, shouting, “Come on, Squink.”

Robin shuffles his feet, waddling like a baby sea turtle under a too-big backpack shell. It’s too much cuteness to ignore. Dean rolls down the window and shouts, “Hey!”

The girl frowns, but Robin waves. He doesn’t run to Dean, but he gives a little smile. Caution is a sign of intelligence.

Dean parks and approaches with an easy smile, hands in his pockets.

“Hey, Kiddo.”

He kneels and holds out his palm until Robin gives up a low five. Fist bump. High five. Then he stands, ruffles the boy’s hair and offers the girl a slightly different smile.

She’s not anyone’s idea of pretty. Plump and pimply, but Dean could make her feel like a supermodel for an hour. How’d you like that, little girl, huh? It’ll be the highlight of your whole mediocre life. He doesn’t often mess with little girls. Too complicated, but he’s open to exceptions.

“You must be Joëlle.” Dean’s memory for names is another of nature’s gifts. “Layla said you’re a great babysitter.”

She’s still skeptical. Kids keep getting smarter and smarter. Or maybe it’s these latchkey children. They’ve seen enough to be wary.

“I’m going to take over from here,” Dean says. “You can head on home.”

Joëlle squints and tilts her head.

“It’s okay honey. I’m his dad.”

Robin’s pale eyes grow wide enough to pop out of the sockets. If Layla brings it up, Dean will say the boy misheard. The girl shrugs and pops a bud into one ear.

“See you, Squink.”

Robin watches her disappear up the next flight of stairs. Dean takes the key from around his neck, holds his soft, tiny hand as they enter the apartment.

As soon as they cross the threshold, Robin murmurs, “You’re not my dad.”

“Can you keep a secret?”

Robin nods, dawn-blue eyes wide. 

“Right now, I’m better than your dad, because that asshole is not here.”

The kid goes on nodding. He’d already pieced that together himself. 

Dean sits on the edge of the bed and pats his lap. “Bring a book.”

Robin selects something about Pooh Bear. Dean rubs his smooth thigh while he reads, wraps an arm around the wiggler's belly. 

“You like that?"

“Tickles.” Robin’s not laughing. 

“You want me to tickle you for real?”

Dean sticks his fingers under Robin’s arms. Warm and damp, but the boy clamps down hard. Doesn’t like that. Not a problem. Dean's got other arrows in his quiver.

“Ew. You’re a stinky little thing, aren’t you? You need a bath.”

“No.”  He likes that even less. 

“Well, if you don’t mind smelling like a piglet,”  Dean says and drops the kid between his thighs, squeezes him tight and nuzzles his face. 

Whispers, “Let’s take a shower, Robin.”

The boy shakes his head. 

“Okay.” Dean nods, swallowing his disappointment. “You hungry? How about a snack?”

That receives an enthusiastic nod.

Dean carries him in and sets the boy on the counter to hunt down PB&J.

“Mommy doesn’t let me sit up here.”

“Well, we won’t do it when she’s home, then.” Dean grins. “Good for men to have some secrets, isn’t it?”

Robin’s brow raises.

Dean prepares and then slices the boy’s sandwich into quarters. He offers the first section but only allows him to eat it from the chef’ hand. His dad used to do that: finger feed him. Dean doesn’t think much about old Johnny boy, but when he does, it’s vivid. And his body always responds with a spike in the chest and a surge to his dick.

When he’s done, Dean holds up his sticky pointer finger, slathered in seedless raspberry jelly.

“You help me with that?”

The clever boy looks around, searching for napkins. Dean stuffs the finger in his mouth. Robin sucks. Babies are born with the instinct. Layla’s son does not disappoint. Dean’s crotch twitches and expands as he watches silently until Robin’s tongue pushes the finger from his mouth.  
It is, after all, clean now.

“Thank you,” Dean says. “Now, let’s see if we have any milk.”

Dean pours it. Then he stands between the kid’s wide legs and helps him drink.

“That good? Huh?”

Robin nods. Sure, it’s good. No amount of milk in the world is going to turn this tender little filet into a manly man. The child was simply born for this. Dean puts down the cup and holds Robin’s face between both hands so he can lick the trace of raspberry from the corner of his mouth.  
He leans back and smiles at Robin’s stunned expression.

“All right?”

The kid nods, because he knows what’s good for him.

“Yeah.”

Dean takes his next taste right from Robin’s tongue. Slides around inside of that unseductively wide-open cavern. Traces over the baby teeth. One missing.  
He pulls Robin’s legs around him and humps the cabinets. Dean groans. Robin tenses. Skittish.  
Dean is a grown-up. Some of them trust him on that merit alone. Some trust their bodies.  
Got to go easy with this one.

“It’s okay,” Dean whispers into silky, platinum hair.

He rubs his face in it like a pig in shit.

Before Ben, this was Dean’s outer limit. Two-way frotting, a lot of kissing. He’d make himself and the. kid dizzy with kissing. He’d send the little bugger to bed and get off on his own time.

Ben Braeden changed the game. Dean hasn’t had a young lover since Ben. The idea of fucking tiny, frightened Robin is too much. It’s too hot. Dean might break him.  
God. What would that be like? To hear a snap. Feel a crunching of bones beneath him.

Dean shakes that vileness from his head.

It’s a little after 4 PM. He’s got to be back at Sam’s by 6.  
More than enough time to dismantle this boy and, hopefully, reassemble him.

Dean carries Robin from the kitchen to his bedroom. For the first time, he sees the framed photo of the army man kneeling with his hand on an Army-issue assault rifle. That couldn’t have been there before. He’d have noticed. Dean drops Robin on his bed. Picks up the photo.

“This your dad?”

The kid nods.

Nice looking blonde guy in fatigues. Something about it is off, though. Dean turns his back to the boy. Cracks open the frame. As he thought. It’s a glossy, snipped from a magazine. There’s an excerpt of an article about tiny houses on the back.

One hell of a dangerous game Layla is playing. Why do adults always think they can lie to kids and get away with it?  
It kind of, almost, pisses him off. Makes Dean want to give Robin something so true, not his mother, not all the therapy in the world can strip it away from him. Something that will be with him forever.

Dean replaces the photo letting the wild swell of anger and pity and lust surge through him. It’s tough not having a dad. This kid needs a good, deep dicking.

How did Ben change the game?  
Well, for one, he was always a husky little fella. Built sturdy, like his real dad might have been a linebacker. Fearless, sarcastic, and always into it. Dean never had to coerce or coax anything out of him. Little Ben was three years old when they met. Dean waited until he was six. Still small, but eager. Once he understood what Dean wanted, he thought it was the greatest game in the world.

If anyone would listen and not lock him up, Dean would write a book and explain that kids are animals. All animals love sex. It’s hardwired into the survival of the species. As long as nobody tells them it’s wrong, they can’t get enough of it. If something hurts, they let you know. If it feels good, then it’s heaven all around. There’s nothing like the look on a 6-year old’s face when he’s coming. Dry of course, nothing to show but that expression. But it’s better than hot. It’s cosmic.

When Benny was 8, he started initiating. Careful touches when his mom wasn’t around. A kiss on the lips after his bedtime story. That heaven quickly became hell.

Dean’s relationship with Lisa had been on/off anyway, always rekindling when he came into town to meet Ash and talk about the gun trade. Every time, little Ben picked up where they’d left off and kept pushing until Dean, without fully understanding how it happened, was full-on fucking a nine-year-old.

He hadn’t intended it, but Ben never showed regret or shame. To the contrary, he pushed and pushed until, well… Dean would have ended him. He hadn’t seen another option.

But Robin is fragile and trembling, and while Dean doesn’t want to hurt the boy, he also, kind of, wants to shatter him. Just to know how it feels.

“Get undressed.”

Dean cups the strained denim over his crotch. John Winchester would be proud.

Why in god’s name is Dean thinking about him so much today?

Sam.  
Must be.  
Sam is back. John is back. And Dean is 11 years old with a moon pale boy shivering in front of him.

“You cold?”

Dean warms him by rubbing his giant hands up and down bony arms. Humming his dad’s song:

_Baby_   
_When I think about you_   
_I think about love_

Dean leans down for a kiss and the boy squeaks. A small, breathy sound. Like a chipmunk sneeze.

“It’s all right.” He meets those sickly blue eyes.

A slight genetic alteration and this kid would have been albino.

“It’s all right, Robin. It’ll feel good.”

To Dean.  
He smiles to himself.

No, wait. He’s not that guy. He doesn’t force kids. He loves on them. Makes up for what they’ve been missing. He’s the feel-good man.

He strokes Robin’s face. Shushes him.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Do you know that?”

Because if he doesn’t know, Dean might as well.  
He loosens his belt.

What makes two boys so different? What makes a kid like Ben beg for what Robin fears. What makes a man like Dean crave them both?

He reaches down and covers Robin’s warm crotch with his palm. His face is terrified, but his olive-sized prick is stiff. Bony hips grind up into Dean’s hand. At the verge of tears, Dean retracts just for a moment.

“Shhh. Relax.”

His other hand strokes hair, down heaving chest. The little heart fluttering against his ribs like bird’s wings beating at a cage bars.

“I’m going to give you something so special.”

Dean sits the boy on the bed, goes to his knees with his face between his legs. He reaches into his pants, choking his leaky rod while he licks and nibbles the boy’s thin trembling thighs. Shivering against Dean’s cheeks. And the whimpers. Dear Holy God, the whimpers.  
Wounded puppy

The tiny fingers in Dean’s hair. Of course, he wants it. Who doesn’t want to feel good? Who doesn’t want Dean Winchester to do what he does best?

Dean tugs his pants around his ass so he can stroke properly. He stands and knocks Robin back onto the mattress and falls on top of him. Hovering on his elbows. Dean’s stiff dick between his legs.

God damn it.

The shirt is in his way. Dean stands and peels the front over his head, so he’s got a kind of T-shirt vest.  
Robin gazes up in awe and unmistakable terror at the humongous man and a humongous cock that may or may not fit comfortably in his gaping mouth.

Dean pecks his lips. Robin’s nose wrinkles, maybe because of the stubble. They've lost ground again so quickly. Impatience crashes through Dean like lightning.  
There's time. No rush.

“Touch me, Robin.” Dean grabs his wrist, guides the hand where he wants it.

At the slightest resistance, Dean lets go.

“One day you’ll be a big as me.” Doubtful. “Don’t you want to know what that feels like?”

More likely, one day you’ll grow up and still be somebody’s bitch. Might as well learn what that feels like.

Dean collects the shiny precum on his thumb and paints Robin’s lips with it. The boy tries to wiggle away, but Dean captures his skull.

“It’s good for you. Open your mouth.”

The willful little bastard hides his lips between his teeth.

“Open your mouth, and I won’t hurt you or your mother.”

Why did he say that?

Because it works better than a crowbar. Robin’s jaw falls open and Dean slides right in. His finger first.  
Then, he crawls up Robin’s body and slips in, just the tip.  
Oh, Lord. Just the tip. Please.  
If Dean had days and months and years to break him in slow like Ben. He’d teach Robin how to love it.

His whole cock head pops sweetly into the too-small mouth and they both moan. Dean would urge in further but Robin might get one of those fissures on the corner of his lip. They take forever to go away and hurt like hell. Dean knows them well.

He’s got something else in mind anyway.

Dean makes the boy spit in his hand but doesn’t get much. Adds his own saliva to the mix and massages it onto his cock.

“Hands and knees,” he commands and makes space for Robin to maneuver.

Dean’s not going to last much longer and he knows where he wants his load.

He tries it this way, but it’s better with Robin flat on his belly. Dean on top, smothering. Some squirming is to be expected. Perfectly natural. Dean grips the back of Robin's neck. 

"Sh sh sh. It's okay. Just feel it, Robin." He breathes the words into the boy's down-soft, silvery hair. 

Dean grinds between angular cheeks. Frank and buns.

Not tight as his hole would be, but so fucking good. No wonder about his father and the senator and any of them. No wonder why they wanted him. Why they wanted this. God knows Dean wants it, and he can take it without leaving a scar.

"Doesn't hurt, does it? Hm? No, it feels good, right? Tell me."

Robin mumbles something, but his face is buried in the mattress. Dean doesn’t try to breach his hole. Takes the friction he can get and rides until he rises. Flies. Spine arched. Toes curled. Shouting as he shoots. Firecrackers exploding all along his nervous system.

Boy beneath him, shivering. Ass oozing like a Twinkie. Dean takes a bite.  
Robin yells. It was too hard. Skin didn’t break, but there'll be marks for a few days.

He takes stumble steps back from the bed, gawks at the little boy.  
The very little boy he just more or less fucked into the mattress. Runs his hand back and forth over his brow.

Like a demon-possessed man who regains consciousness after murdering and eating his first-born child.

Well, not that bad. It wasn’t that bad. He didn’t kill him, for Christ sakes. Nobody killed him. He’s fine. He’s here. Everything’s going to be fine. Robin won’t squeal. Not to his mother. In bed, yes. Always for the rest of his life. His tops will adore it.

If this is Ben’s fault, Sammy’s, Dean’s father’s, none of them are here right now. Just Dean and Robin and his magazine-clipped daddy - who, for the record, Dean would also fuck.

Maybe someday he’ll understand. Maybe Dean will. Robin might even thank him. Or wish him dead. Or forget Dean altogether and wonder why he’s all fucked up.

Then again, isn’t everybody all fucked up? And Dean hasn’t fucked everybody. The only kid he’s ever really fucked is Ben Braeden - whose text messages he won’t even answer.

“Go take a shower,” Dean says.

Robin obeys. He'd make a good soldier if it weren't for the glass bones.

Dean changes his bedclothes. Layla may notice the fresh sheets. If Dean were here, he’d say the boy took a nap and wet himself. But Dean leaves the apartment long before Mama bear makes it home.

But only after kissing Robin’s cheek, placing a hand on the boy’s damp hair and a bowl of berry ice cream on the table before him. The last advice he gives the kid is, “Behave.”


	72. Chapter 72

Dean can’t return to Sam’s while his lips are still salty with little boy tears. Even though Sam will never taste. Even if Sam doesn’t know Dean was once his big brother. It’s just wrong.

But he has to go back and he promised 6:00. 

He debates about buying scrubs to complete the male night nurse look, but between the Village People feeling it gives him and the fact that he wasn’t wearing scrubs last night, he opts for black on black again. Weapon concealed. 

Enters like a guest this time. Sam buzzes him through the wrought-iron gate. They appear to be the only ones in the house.

Dinner is already on two TV tables in Sam's room where they consume in silence. But, at least it’s closer to real food: grilled salmon and asparagus. Dean leaves the greens, thanks his host and Sam replies with a request.

“I was hoping,” he says, dabbing a linen napkin at the corner of his mouth like Regis Fuckin Philbin. “That you’d help me shower. If it’s not too much trouble.”

Dean doesn’t answer.

Not that he’s opposed to bathing some huge, hot guy. The thing is, Sam don’t look none too sick today. Last night, in the hospital bed, with the IV, he’d looked like he was ringing the bell at Death’s door. This evening, he’s fine. 

As ‘night nurse’ Dean had checked out the chart. Apparently, Sam suffers from nocturnal neurasthenia. 

According to Google, Sam grows weak at night. As if his body is running on solar cells. Sounds like complete bullshit, but without it, Dean’s got no excuse to be here. And no reason not to kill his brother.

“Yeah. Sure. Of course.” He mirrors the mouth-cleaning gesture, but with less panache, tosses the napkin onto his asparagus and stands. “Let’s get to scrubbing.”

Washing a grown man is like riding a bike. You don’t forget how to do it. Even if your hands are bigger, stronger and figuratively dirtier now. 

Sam’s shower is massive. Handmade terra cotta tiling even Dean’s crude taste can appreciate. No stall door. Just a slightly sloping floor that eases runoff down to the drain. A handheld snake showerhead hangs beneath the wall-mounted one. Apparently, Dean is supposed to hose the big guy down like a horse. 

Sam provides flipflops and a bottle of liquid soap made from organic goat’s milk. 

Then, the patient unceremoniously undresses and sits: elbows on the armrests of a grey shower chair. With his straight-spined regal posture, he more closely resembles a king than an ailing man. And Sam ain’t shy. Got no reason to be. His knees are wide with a beautiful, healthy cock resting majestically atop a thick, dark bush.

His lowly servant, Dean dutifully begins by rubbing his hands together to generate some suds.  
No resentment. If he had the mullah, he’d have somebody come to wash his balls, too. And behind his ears. Not that it’s hard to reach. Just for the entertainment. 

“You ready?”

Sam nods.

Maybe the moment Dean touches his flesh, the memory will come flooding back? Sam could suddenly recall all the times his big brother was on tub duty. Then what? Does this become awkward?  
Isn’t it already awkward? Dean does a quick scan of his mind.  
He’s a little hard, but no awkward.

Can’t adjust his crotch with soapy hands. On with the show.  
We begin with the laying on of hands. A palm on each firm shoulder.

Nothing. No flash of lightning and instant recall. Just small to larger concentric circles of snow-white bubbles on pallid skin. How often does Sam see the sun? Does he ever leave this place? Dean would ask, but he’s currently concentrating on not springing a full boner. Not a very nurse-like thing to do. Those guys wash all sorts of bodies - even immaculate ones like Sam’s, which despite being colorless is fucking built.  
There must be a gym in this castle because Damn Sam. 

The back. The arms. This thick-ass neck. Dean works his way around to the chest, struggling to maintain a professionally disinterested expression. Once. Just once, he makes the mistake of glancing at Sam’s face. 

Those hazel eyes are mostly blue with a golden halo. Laser-focused on Dean’s face.

Good time to rinse. Put some distance between Sam’s body and his hot hands.

Then again, why?

This guy doesn’t know him from Adam. As far as Wesson is concerned, Dean is a stranger. An employee. There’s absolutely no reason for them not to get freaky. Dean no longer has a little brother. This is Sam Wesson, tycoon.

“What is it you do again?”

“I, um… Neurotechnology.”

Dean nods but remains clueless.

“If you like, I’ll show you,” Sam says. “After.”

“Of course.”

The guy’s tone gives him away: Sam is hot for him. It’s clear in the soft eyes. Or it could be the illness. And this is not some guy. It’s Dean’s little brother, whether Sam remembers that or not.

How the fuck could he forget?  
You know how? Seven is young. And thirty is a lot of years.  
And that shit was traumatic. A lot of people blank out tortured childhoods. Good for them.

Most importantly, if Sam has forgotten, there’s no reason he’d have put out the hit. Dean is no one to him. Neither foe, nor kin, nor friend

Dean is losing it like a candle on a grill. He holds the hose close and rinses Sam’s back and shoulders. Elicits a soft groan and another request: 

“Could I trouble you to wash my hair, as well, please? It’s been a few days.”

“No problem.”

Except there’s too much of the shit. Sam’s hair is past his shoulders. Head tilted back, eyes closed, neck exposed. Total trust and pleasure. Dean could slit his throat and fuck his sputtering mouth. Sam would never know what happened. 

“Shut up.”

“I’m sorry?” Sam sits up and frowns.

Dean shakes away the image. Those dark ideas are flooding in today like he’s picking up radio transmission from the old man. 

No matter what, he’s not slitting any throats. It’s a fucking gory mess and impossible to walk away from unblemished, even if you do it from the back. Sam’s guy, the hitman, had nearly splurted on Dean’s new shoes. Sure, the blood feels nice at first, like any bodily fluid: warm and silky. But it only takes a few seconds to turn sticky. Within a few minutes, it stinks like what it is.

Dean’s been covered in blood for days, but that was back when he was John’s boy, learning lessons. Dean’s forgotten why he got in trouble that time, but he remembers the blood sticking to him like a second skin. The handcuffs searing at his wrists.

Lucky Sam has put those bad ol’ days out of his mind. Big brother’s got it all on file.  
And to prove it, he ramps up the car wash up to the next level. Lathers Sam’s scalp nice and slow, blunt nails scraping scalp until his victim moans again.

Dean leans low and whispers right in his ear, “That good?”

He leaves off the word, ‘baby.’ Will save that for later when the guy is wriggling on the tip of his dick. Yeah, Wesson’s a big boy and a gazillionaire, but he’s bending over tonight. Not like Dean hasn’t had his cock up this ass a’plenty. It’s just been a while. It’ll be a little homecoming party.

He rinses Sam’s hair, pats it dry with a fluffy white towel. Then he stands behind Sam, soaping the baby’s chest. His clothes are getting wet, but what does the Emporer care?

Dean reaches Sam’s navel, the back of his skull pressed against his belly. It’s time to address matters head-on.

First of all, Sam’s eyes are fucking insane. Gorgeous, and they don’t relent for anything. Unsmiling. Just watching with an intensity that would rattle a lesser man.  
But Dean is ready for this. He was born and raised, and trained, and lives for moments like this. Sam is watching like he dares him.  
You don’t dare a crazy motherfucker with nothing to lose.

Dean goes to his knees between his brother’s legs and begins soaping, first his treasure trail. Then the tops of both thighs, all while keeping his gaze locked with Sam’s. Licks his lips. No resistance. 

Then, they’re doing this.

Dean takes Sam’s cock in one hand, then both. It’s a girthy piece of meat, even soft as it is.  
Technically, what Dean is doing could be called washing. In more accurate terms, it’s the classic Happy Ending to a proper Thai massage. He slides one hand from tip to base and follows it with the other, twisting the wrists, rubbing his thumb over the slit. Everything short of plopping the soapy thing in his mouth. He’d do that, too, but… goat’s milk?

Sam is either ill, or he’s that one lonely bastard at the hetero tip of Kinsey’s curve. There’s no way Dean could sit through this treatment without getting. In fact, he’s already two tugs away from a cleanup on aisle two.

Sam, however, asks, “Are you almost done? Getting a little chilly.”

Dean is not deterred. Enjoys a challenge. 

He’s bedded more straight man than days in a month. Just for the laughs. Young guys are a nickel a dozen on stag nights when they can blame it on the drinks. For them, Dean fems up his approach a little. Bats his eyes. Smiles a lot. Softens his gaze and his tone and Tyler (or whatever) goes right for it. Military boys are especially “curious”. And the GF will never know unless you tell her. 

Men Dean’s age are slightly more complicated. Set in their ways. Grew up in the world when gay was still the devil. These family guys, you buddy ‘em up, play the Musketeer angle - all for one and I should have tried this a long time ago, back before the Millenials made experimentation sissycool. Why didn’t we think of it?  
Too busy working, I guess. 

Much older straight men they take a look a Dean and lump him with all the things they thought were unattainable anymore. At the end of the day, who gives a shit. You’re fucking a pretty face. That’s all that matters. Bring on the blue pills. It’s good to be fucking at all. 

Dean will figure out Sam’s angle and he’ll have him, hook, line and sinking his dick brutal slow in the very ass Sam’s currently covering with grey sweatpants. No shorts. After all, why be shy after a guy has washed your balls?  
Not for the first time, but Sam doesn’t remember about that.

Those balls were a lot smaller and less hairy back then. For that matter, so was Dean. 

All these years later, his little brother has grown into the kind of man… 

To be honest, it’s hard to tell what kind of man Sam is. Beautiful. Rich.  
All Dean knows is that he’d sell his soul for that adoration, that connection they had before their father made him fuck it all up.


	73. Chapter 73

“So, how about that tour?” Dean asks as Sam pulls on a t-shirt. 

He’s still calculating what it’ll take to get Wesson in bed, but Dean always figures that out. 

Sam blinks in confusion, appearing half his age. It’s hard to look at him and accept how much of his life he’s missed. The first steps and first words, Dean was there. He hid Sam’s first lost tooth under his pillow and stole the dollar from his dad’s wallet to pay the tooth fairy. Dean was Sam’s first kiss and his first lay, way before either should have happened. The good news is that Sam has forgotten that last bit. The bad news: he’s forgotten all of it. 

So, it was some weird coincidence that the man Dean killed in that alley had Sam’s information on his phone. Who knows what the connection is, but if Sam had called in that hit, he’d have recognized Dean and freaked out when he showed up in this place. This is just one of those kismet things. Life led him here to reconcile his past. 

At some point, Dean will deal with Grabby, or whoever sent the hitman, but right now, he’s face to face with his giant, little brother and nothing has ever been more important. Right now, Dean doesn't know whether he wants to be best friends with this guy or fuck him into a bloody pulp. He just wants. His bones are heavy, breathing labored with the desire to say something that would part Sam’s lips, fell him to his knees. 

But if Sam knew who was standing in front of him - the animal who’d given his bath, who’d initially come in to kill him… 

Better to reign it in and let the thing play out. 

“Sure,” Sam says, finally. “I’ll show you around.”

The bedroom is already familiar territory. Leading down the corridor, mild floor lights spring awake as Sam passes, waving disinterested hands at closed doors. 

“Rooms,” he says without disclosing what’s inside them.

The living room is void of furniture, as is the dining room - nothing but white walls - but Sam presents them with the explanation, “I don’t usually entertain guests. The housekeeper and the chef come once a week. And you met Ms. Fox. She handles my clerical work.”

Dean nods. So, Sam is a hermit.  
He stops in front of a steel wall as if he's being punished and sighs. “I don’t usually show people this, but…Are you at all interested in technology?” 

“Sure.”

Dean is interested in Sam, wherever this weird ride is taking him. 

Sam slicks back his damp hair, binding it at his neck with a scrunchie. 

“Okay,” he says.

Increasingly, Dean is interested in fucking Sam. Never mind trying to convince him of a past that’s better left forgotten. Better to rewrite the whole thing, like the grisly shit never happened. Dean used to dream of reuniting with his brother, but never imagined he’d have a chance to screw Sammy without him being drugged out of his gourd. Without their dad balls-deep inside of Dean’s ass, urging him deeper. Steaming up Dean’s ear. Setting a wicked pace, as if with a whip.

Sam holds both palms to the wall and the steel begins to shift.


	74. Chapter 74

As the wall morphs into opening doors, Dean jumps back. Very fucking Bruce Wayne. Sam peeks from the corner of his eye and grins at Dean’s reaction. They step into the elevator and Sam spits into a small glass vial. A whoosh of air empties the container. Then a sultry female voice says, “Good evening, Mr. Wesson. Where am I taking you, Sir?”

“3L, Mary. I’d like to show this gentleman around.”

“Guest voice identification,” the machine said.

Sam explained that Dean should state his name.

“Uh… Dean Johnson?”

“Guest DNA verification.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mary. Override. Thank you,” Sam says.

The elevator silently slips into gear, only mildly dropping the bottom out of Dean’s guts as they begin their descent.

“So, this is—”

“You’ll see.”

Something about Sam’s tone rubs him all the wrong ways. Like a librarian shushing him or a museum curator telling him not to touch shit. If there were buttons, like in a normal elevator, he’d smash them all at once. 

There’s nothing but Sam and his voice command and saliva-activated computer. The kind of shit you see in Marvel movies. 

Well, then again, Lisa’s got Alexa and Siri. The future is now. 

Dean is convincing himself to be chill when the doors open again, and the computer chick announces their arrival at 3L. Sam thanks the machine and leads the way into a steel-plated corridor. 

“Is this real, man?”

Still walking briskly on those long legs, Sam turns and smiles, “Very.”

“So…”

Dean already knows before Sam speaks that it’s going to be a bunch of tech bullshit that he knows nothing about. He’ll nod and hope it ends soon. At least it’s not too much of a labyrinth before they arrive in a dark room.

“Hello.”

Sam speaks. The lights rise. A wall of screens leaps to life. It looks like a security office with live feed on dozens of cameras.

“Clear screens,” Sam says and everything obeys. “Run investor feed, 703. Introducing HALO.”

A thin crescent materializes in the air between them. Dean reaches out to touch the thing and his hand passes through it like a ghost.

“Hologram,” Sam explains.

“No shit.”

Rather than Sam, the computer voice from the elevator begins to narrate. The doodad spins 360 degrees while she talks.

“Introducing, the HALO. Hypothalamic Activity Limiter Orb. The world’s first neuronano device.”

“What does it—”

“Listen.” 

Dean listens. The two-minute presentation is in English, but not the kind of English he understands. When it’s complete, he scratches his neck and asks again, “What is it?”

“Well, initially, it was designed as a behavior modification device, but the implications are still surprising us.”

“Behavior mod… So, if I wanted to stop smoking?”

“Precisely.”

At least he’s not a complete idiot.

“How does it work?” Dean leans closer, squinting at the airborne image. 

None of the eerie, Star Wars backlight. The thing looks like it’s real, floating in the room. On closer examination, it could be a metallic sun visor without the bill. Sort of. Little knobbies on the end. Like earbuds. Kind of.

“Have you heard of nanite technology?”

Dean shrugs. He may have heard of it.

“Well, basically, these nodules.” Sam points to the knobbies. “Are fastened to the subjects just above the zygomatic arches.”

Dean’s nose curls. English. Sam’s middle fingers land gently on his temples sending a surge of electricity down his body.

“Here. And here.”

Dean holds his tongue and nods, hoping Sam will linger longer than he does. 

“Microscopic computers permeate the skin and penetrate directly to the designated areas of the brain to help the patient achieve the desired goal. It’s also been remarkably effective in treating depression and schizophrenia.”

“So, you’re giving people mini-lobotomies?”

“That’s a very crude interpretation.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “But is it right?”

“We’re helping people create new neural pathways. When the patient would usually take a smoke or slip into a depression, the nanites rewire their brain to do something they thought was impossible.”

“You’re already doing this to people?

“Test subjects, but with staggering results.”

“The shit people go for.”

“People who were desperate and now have hope, thanks to this technology.” 

Here Dean is, disparaging Sam’s life work and the big guy’s Mona Lisa grin hasn’t diminished in the least.

“Bunch of robots in the brain?” Dean shudders. “No, thanks.”

“It’s not for everyone, but you’d be amazed what people would do for a good life. To be happy.” 

Dean humphs and follows Sam into another room with a computer on a desk. Beside the monitor, there’s a framed photograph that Dean used to carry in his wallet: 18-year-old Sam, capped and gowned, lanky and shaggy, unsmiling between far shorter and gleefully beaming people thrice his age. The version Dean had was from the Canton Times. This print is in full color. 

“Your folks.”

Without following Dean’s gaze, Sam nods. “Good people. Meant well.”

“Dead?”

“Ten years now.”

And may they rot in Hell. They’d moved Heaven and Earth to keep Dean out of Sam’s life and succeeded, the fuckers. 

Then again, maybe it was for the best because Dean would have latched himself onto his little brother like an anchor shackled to his ankle. None of this tech-magic-bullshit would have happened under Dean’s watch - the invention, the house… Dean would have had Sam out on the open road, driving from town to town, fucking and murdering people for a living. 

Hard as it is to admit, the Wessons were right to take Sam away, to get that restraining order, to threaten Dean and move away. 

“I guess they loved you, huh?”

It’s a weird thing for a night nurse to say, but Sam must be feeling sentimental, too, because he nods. “Adopted me when I was 8.”

Actually, he was 7, but it’d be even stranger for Dean to correct Sam’s story. Instead, he asks, “Is that why you don’t have a family of your own?”

“How do you know that?”

“Well, if there was a Mrs. or a Jr., this would be their picture, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose so.” 

“And she’d be taking care of you,” Dean adds, with a twinge of jealousy for this non-existent woman. “Not me.”

There must have been women, though. Scores of them. Probably still are, lining up around the block to get a piece of a guy like Sam and his windowless castle. 

“How about you, Mr. Johnson?”

“Call me Dean.”

I’ve washed your junk, boy. We’re on a first-name basis. 

“Have you got a family? Dean.”

“Nah. Patients keep me busy.”

Sam nods and asks, “Where did you go to school?”

The last school Dean remembers is Francis Scott Key Middle School in Pittsburgh. There were a couple of days of high school before he was inducted in the Grabby Himmel Institute for Wayward Boys. A lot of Grabby’s curriculum, Dean had already picked up in John Winchester’s homeschool. Let’s just say he was a bit of an overachiever in the areas that mattered. 

“UPenn,” he spits out the lie.

Always was quick on his feet. If Sam asked what campus, he’d say Pittsburgh. Knows the town well enough to fake it.

“Did you grow up in Pennsylvania?”

“No.”

And to be honest, Dean would love to get off the topic of the past.

“Were you happy?” Sam asks.

Must be his turn to be weird. Or is this something else? 

His eyes are all soft and lidded. After the shower disappointment, Dean figured he’d need alcohol. But the way Sam is gazing at him with all the tenderness in the world - it’s on. 

It’s still a strange question and the answer is: Rarely. But there’s nothing hot about that reply. The last thing Dean wants is a pity party. He wants to fuck.

“Happy enough,” he says, whatever that means.

“Are you happy now?”

The warmth in Sam’s eyes is smoldering now. Dean glances away to keep his equilibrium. He’s not trying to fall in love with his little brother. Just screw him, for old time sakes. 

“How about you?” Dean asks. “Were you a happy kid?”

“Always felt like something was missing, but that’s common for adopted kids. At least that’s what the shrinks say.”

Sam chuckles, but it’s hard to tell whether he’s joking or not. It’s quiet in this place. A soft mechanical hum and no other sound but their breathing - amplified by the room. 

“How did you become a nurse, Dean?” Sam clears his throat. “You’ll excuse if I say you don’t seem like the type.” 

“No, of course. Funny story.” The best lies bear a mark of the truth. “My little brother was ill and I needed to help him.”

Sam smiles and nods.

“Always... only wanted to take of him.”

“So, you’ve got this lucky little brother. Any other family?”

“Nope. Just me.”

And a chain of little boys I’ve played Daddy to. Ever played Daddy, Sam? Ought to try it. It’s a real hoot.

Sam’s stare is a blazing wildfire. Dean could shove him against the wall and have him.  
What’s the holdup? GO  
Are you going to kiss your brother with this mouth? 

He didn’t eat Robin’s ass. Sam won’t taste that, but Dean’s cock has been up to some naughty business today.  
Not just today. If Sam knew, there wouldn’t be all this gentle gazing. He’d be calling the cops and snarling like a rabid dog. They all would. All those clueless, single moms, wanting so hard to believe that there are still good men out there. 

Sorry, ladies. We’re all a bunch of savage beasts. And your little boy is a better lay than you are. 

Dean can’t go back to Layla. If she saw his fucking bite marks on Robin’s ass…  
Can’t go back to Lisa if he doesn’t want to screw Ben into the third level of oblivion. He doesn’t even want to pass another mirror and have to look himself in the eyes. 

He knows what he is. Sam doesn’t. Maybe that’s why Dean’s want is creeping over his skin like a rash. Sam still thinks he’s some good guy who helps people for a living.

Take him, right now. Maybe, somehow, touching Sam will make —

“Everything all right?”

Dean is thrumming with need. He might make his move and discover it’s too soon. In which case, Sam knocks him back, kicks him out. 

Or Dean could tell the ugly truth. If there’s not a DNA test in this lab, it won’t be difficult to find one. The moment he does that, he loses this chance to taste Sam. To feel how he’s ripened over the years. To know how much the same and how different it is to be inside him. 

Dean doesn’t need a brother. He doesn’t need another fling. He needs someone to look at him with all this gushy, affection and fucking mean it.  
Not just someone.  
He needs Sam. 

He’ll give up everything for this. It’s insane, but why not? Why can’t Dean be happy, for once? Have something good and pure, for once?

How pure is it if he has to lie to have it?

Well, Sam will never know. Dean has already failed as a brother, but he’ll be the best fucking lover Sam ever had. He’ll make him come every day, morning noon and night. And he’ll be so good. Never kill another soul. Never touch another kid. If he can just have this.  
Please.

Carefully, tiptoeing on stardust, Dean steps closer until they’re almost chest to chest. He slides a hand behind Sam’s neck. If the quarry hasn’t pulled away by now, it’s just a matter of gently drawing him down, staring into his beautiful, changeable eyes with a soft, certain smile. 

“Dean, I want you—”

“Yeah, Sam.”

“I want—”

Dean steals the first peck.  
No kiss will ever be enough. He launches onto his toes, pulls Sam down with both hands and licks his way into his still-speaking mouth.

“To be happy.”

Dean tastes the meaningless words. Everything falls away until there’s nothing but Sam - huge and solid in a melting world.

Everyone knows the cliche’, but Dean has never been near, let alone in love. Right now, he feels it. The spinning room, the racing heart, the dry mouth and weak knees. He feels it all, revels in the swooning sensation before he loses consciousness and careens forward into Sam’s strong arms.


End file.
